


Ink On The Dagger

by Torontok



Series: Ink On The Dagger [1]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Harems, Historical, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Sexual Content, not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:32:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torontok/pseuds/Torontok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The state of Eastern Wu is in constant skirmishes with it's neighboring states and war seems inevitable. The monarch has been growing increasingly more demented and is kept removed from the public eye. Prince Yifan is content to run the country from behind the scenes but the arrival of a new scribe to the forbidden city hints at a darker plot unfolding unbeknownst to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fleurs as part of Exordium Challenge 2015.

There’s a tapestry hanging on the wall of the advisors chamber of the Royal palace, red with gold threads shot through it, depicting the legend of the fox and the monk. Yifan has whiled away many a boring political meeting by staring at it and trying to come up with his own versions of the tale. Today however, his attention is drawn towards it for an entirely different reason, the reason being his elder brother dozing in front of it as their lead war general drones on at the head of the table.

He reaches for the bamboo pen at his side, waiting until everyone’s attention is diverted before throwing it at Jun Mian’s head. His brother shoots up with a start, nearly upending the teacup by his side. He glares at Yifan who returns the expression, gesturing with his head to the front of the room. The war general is concluding his speech, addressing their father at the head of the table.  
“It appears, my emperor, that the Kingdom of Shu is facing a threat from Northern border from Wei. The fighting has yet to reach our borders but it would be prudent to prepare for the worst. It is highly unlikely that Emperor Cao will stop at just invading Shu and we must be ready to fend off an attack, should it come.”

The Emperor says nothing, preoccupied with drawing pattern on the table with his pen, black ink staining the sleeves of his robes and Yifan suppresses a soft sigh. His father’s senility is becoming more obvious day by day and it breaks his heart to see it. He coughs softly, drawing the council’s attention towards him. “Thank you, General. The council will deliberate with the emperor and we will inform you of our decision soon.” He slants his eyes towards Jun Mian, who thankfully gets the hint. “We will now adjourn.” He orders.

They have to wait till every councilman has come up and bowed to them, offering greetings to the emperor before they can leave. The emperor’s aide comes to usher him back to his chambers and Yifan groans loudly as he stands, blood rushing back to his legs. Jun Mian appears to be in worse shape, moaning as he clutches his head. Yifan snorts at him. “You shouldn't have indulged in all that wine last night, ge.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” His brother moans, as they make their way down the corridors. “The girls were very generous with the pouring too.”

“The concubines trying to get the First prince drunk, I wonder why.” Yifan deadpans, as they make a turn. He frowns when his brother heads in the opposite direction. “Where are you going?”  
Jun Mian waves a hand airily at him. “The ancestors always said the cure for a bout of alcohol sickness is to consume more. I might just have the new southern girl come entertain me while I’m at it.”

“We have to discuss with the elders!” Yifan sputters chasing after him. “War might be upon us and all you can focus on is your whores?”

They reach Jun Mian’s chambers and the elder turn to face him, rolling his eyes. “You worry too much, Fan. The war general is exaggerating, Wei would not be bold enough to attack us especially with the treaty still in effect and our army outnumbering theirs ten to a man. You should relax and leave the ruling nonsense to the advisors.”

He shuts the door behind him and Yifan resists the urge to kick it, before stomping off down the corridor, concerned stares of the palace guards following him.

  
***  


The sounds of the robins outside his window rouses Zitao early, sun only having started to peek over the horizon. He stretches, cotton blankets soft against him before he stumbles over to the ceramic washbasin in the corner, still clad in just his light sleeping robes. The splash of the cold water against his face is sharp, brushing away the last lingering traces of sleep and he wipes his face off before beginning his stretches. He works through the basic forms, stretching and contorting his body as he feels the familiar burn in his muscles. He’s covered by a light sheen of sweat by the time he finishes and he grimaces, shucking his robe. The servants will be in soon to dress him anyways.

He whiles away the time by practising his characters, midnight black ink stark against the bone-white of the parchment. It’s soothing, repetitive work, brush strokes filling the empty space, that he loses himself in. It isn’t until he hears the first stirrings of the household outside his door, servants moving softly up and down the corridor that he pushes away the sheets and takes his pen over to rinse it of the ink, water turning a murky grey. He hears a soft knock behind him and Ling, his manservant pokes his head in, eyes widening when he sees him standing. “You’re awake, my lord.”

Zitao shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.” He holds his arms out and Ling bustles forward to help him remove the sleeping robe. The bath in the corner is filled by two other servants, lugging in buckets of heated waters and he lets himself be led to the table and washed. Normally he’d resent the heavy, skin-bruising scrubbing he’s being given but given the occasion, he lets it slide. He’s dried off before being dressed in his most formal clothing, fitted trousers with a loose white robe worn over and a red silk overcoat. The hems of it pools around him as he sits and waits impatiently as his hair is oiled and then tied in a topknot. Once he is deemed acceptable, he’s taken to the Lord’s chamber.

The chamber is a large, airy room, far more finely decorated than his own, large windows over looking a lotus pond with silk cushion arranged for reclining. He kneels down in front of his Lord, waiting for the small sound of acknowledgement before he rises, sitting back on his heels. The old man looks him up and down, flint black eyes taking in every detail. When he speaks, his voice is low and rough and never fails to strike a thrum of fear through him.

“Today is an important day, Zitao.” his Lord begins, beckoning at a nearby concubine to bring him a plate of persimmons. “It is the day you have worked and trained for all your life.”

“Yes, my lord.” Zitao murmurs, keeping his eyes downcast. He sees the man unsubtly slide his hand down the opening of the concubines dress, hears the small squeak the woman gives in response, eyes darting towards him. His lord picks up a persimmon, biting into the soft flesh and chewing before he continues. “Now, let us review: what are you to do once you reach the royal palace?”

“I am to be presented as a gift to Prince Jun Mian from your Lordship, to faithfully serve as his scribe.” he intones. “I am Zitao of the Huang family and I have been trained amongst your scholars in the art of scribing since childhood.”

His lord nods, a small smile curving his lips. “And what are your true intentions?”

Zitao swallows heavily. “To infiltrate the Clan of Wu and intercept their military correspondence.”

“And?” The older man prompts.

“To slew the Emperor and his seed and ensure a pathway open to the throne for the Clan of Wei, it’s rightful owners.”

The smirk on the older man’s face grows wider. “Indeed we are. The fall of Shu is imminent and soon the same fate shall befall Wu. Let those fools rest on their laurels, content in the treaty and their army. Once the royal line is vanquished, taking the kingdom will be like plucking flower from a stem. But the success of this mission remains on you, Zitao.” He shifts under the intense look his Lord gives him. “There are few I would entrust with a task this important but I have faith in your skills and your loyalty. You fight not just for the rightful rulers of this land but for your own family honour. Never forget the cruelty of Emperor Wu. Do this mission well and your family shall never have to want for anything again. I will restore the Huang clan to it’s former glory as long as you do your part.”  
Zitao nods once. “I understand, my liege and I shall fulfill my duty accordingly.”

The elder gives him a smile, leaning forward to place both his palms atop Zitao’s bowed head. “Go forth, young Zitao. The gods shall watch over you.”

Zitao nods, throat clenched tight as he accepts the blessing. He waits until his Lord dismisses him, eyes already seeking out the concubine and then he stumbles out the door, legs suddenly weak.

Ling is waiting for him. “Sir Zitao, the horse and your escort have been prepared. You are to set out immediately for Suzhou.” He hands him the small ivory box Zitao uses to store his writing implements. “The rest of your luggage has been stored.”

“Thank you.” Zitao accepts the box and bows formally. There’s a beat of silence and then Ling’s face cracks into a wide grin as he comes forward to embrace him and Zitao return the action, feeling his chest clench at the thought of leaving behind his closest friend and confidante. Lin pulls away to give him a cheeky grin. “You be good now, you understand? Don’t go about chasing those court women.” 

Zitao laughs. “I won’t, I promise.”

Ling smiles. “You are a smart boy, Zitao. You’ll do us all proud. Earn the emperor's favour and make a name for yourself.”

Zitao’s heart clenches. Ling is a loyalist to the Wu’s, has no idea that his beloved ward is set out to slaughter the royals, not curry their favour. He just nods, hugging him once more before making his way outside. The retinue is waiting and a guard helps him mount his horse before they set off, the thudding of hooves and lulling movements easing the tension from his shoulders as they ride forward towards the gleaming lights of the capital.

  
***  


Yifan frowns as he stares at the large map spread before him, squinting at the small characters indicating various towns spread out along the southern border that they share with Wei. He’s been trying to plot out additional precautionary defences for the past half hour and the effort is making his head pound. He beckons for his steward to come roll up the map, sighing as he flops back against the cushions, an uncharacteristic lack of decorum in the action. Yixing smiles. “Tired, your highness?”

“Exhausted.” he mutters. “I need a drink.”

Before Yixing can reply, a knock is heard on his door and Yifan sits back up straightening his robes. “Enter.”

The head of the royal guard, Chen, enters first, clad in his full body suit of armour, sword hanging at his hip. He’s flanked by two other men, guards from a different household as evidenced by the seals on their uniforms. His eyes focus on the man they’re apparently escorting, a tall youth, dark of hair and eye with olive coloured skin. his slim fingers currently clasped tightly around a long ivory case. Chen approaches the low table first and bows low, the guards following suit and the other man scrambling to follow. Yifan nods in acknowledgement before turning to Chen for an explanation.

Chen indicates the young man to his left. “This young man is Huang Zitao. He has been sent by Lord Bai as a gift to Prince Jun Mian to serve as his scribe.”

Yifan frowns as he eyes the new man with renewed interest. He’s leery of taking someone new into the royal circle, after all most scribes are hand selected by his father’s aide but he can’t reject a gift from Lord Pak. The man is one of the richest lords in the kingdom and a long time ally of the royal family and his support maybe be necessary in case of a skirmish with Wei. He addresses Chen again. “Why has he been brought to me instead of the First Prince?”

Chen grimaces slightly. “We initially took him to the First Prince’s chamber but he was….preoccupied.”

 _Goddamnit, Jun Mian._ Yifan thinks in irritation before nodding. “We’ll make proper introductions tomorrow. For now, have him assigned a bed chamber.” Chen rise and bows, exiting the chamber with the scribe following suit. For a second his eyes lock on Yifan before he’s bowing once more and following Chen out the door.

He turns to see his advisor frowning at the door from where it had shut behind the retreating figures. “So, what do you think of him, Yixing? A most interesting face if I do say so.”

“He has fox eyes. A familial trait of the Huangs.” Yixing replies, frown getting more pronounced. “My Prince, do you not find it the slightest bit questionable that Lord Bai would send the Huang boy to the First Prince? Especially given the history between your houses.”

“Come now, Yixing, that was years ago.” Yifan chides, rolling the maps up to be stored in their wooden scroll boxes, “Lord Bai has been sponsoring the Huang’s for years and he is as loyal a subject to the Emperor as any.”  
“It is not Lord Bai’s loyalty that I question, My Prince.” Yixing stands to stack the scrolls on the shelves adjoining the walls. Yifan shakes his head at the man’s response, before standing abruptly and beginning to fiddle with his belt. Yixing comes to help him undress. “Are you retiring early tonight, my lord?”

“Yes, I’m weary from all the meetings.” Yifan waits till Yixing is done folding his robes before gesturing with his hand towards the door. “You are dismissed for the evening. But first have Xiulan sent to my room.” Yixing bows in response before leaving.

Yifan sits back on his bed, the polished wood smooth under his bare calves. He thinks back to the scribe, to the sharp stare in which he see curiosity and challenge. It should be disconcerting but instead he finds himself fascinated. He turns his head to the side slightly, when he hears the doors of his chamber open. There’s the soft sound of footsteps before a figure kneels before him, holding out a small carved cup of wine. He takes the cup, gulping down the drink before setting it to the side and tipping the person’s chin up. “Why so silent today, Xiulan?”

The girl smiles, bright eyes becoming half moons. “Sir Yixing told me you were feeling weary, I thought it best not to aggravate your head any further.”

Yifan chuckles, tugging gently on her arm until she’s standing before him. “Yixing worries too much.” He puts a hand on the side of her face, admiring the porcelain of her skin in contrast to his own. A small hand comes over his, pressing gently. Xiulan gives him a smile, mischief in her expression. “Does that mean you do not need me to tend to you after all?” she pulls away, grinning. “Let me take my leave then.”

Yifan pulls her back in by the waist, eliciting a small shriek as he pins her to the bed. “Such a wench.” he murmurs, but there’s affection behind the words and Xiulan smiles, eyes fluttering shut when he moves his hand to her hair, tugging at the combs until it falls free, a black wave against her shoulders.

  
***  


Zitao tosses and turns in his pallet, body still unaccustomed to his new quarters. He can hear the loud snores of the head scribe, Can Lie on his right and he grits his teeth before eventually tossing his blankets off and easing his way through the sleeping bodies on the floor. The door lets out a small creak as he opens it and he stiffens, senses alert for any movements. He slips out, letting the moonlight guide him as he moves through the palace corridors, footsteps light as he navigates, mentally mapping the various turns. He passes the great hall and takes the right turn. A eunuch is sleeping outside the entrance to the Imperial harem, head lolling to the side and Tao tip toes past him silently. The harem is split into several factions, separate chambers for the lower attendants and concubines with larger chamber for the consorts. The corridor ends with a wall, and if Zitao’s research into the layout of the Wu palace, cribbed together from spies and paid-off servants, are correct then there is a hidden entrance behind the wall, used by the concubines to discreetly go in and out of the Emperor’s bedchamber. He taps lightly on it, ear pressed against the wood. It’s hollow and he smirks, pleased. It’s too risky for him to investigate further so he leaves, heading left till he sees the guarded staircase that leads to the Royal chambers and he slinks into the shadows, carefully observing them. The guards are alert, staring stiffly ahead and Zitao feels a grudging respect towards commander Chen, clearly the training his men have received is not to be taken lightly. He eyes the swords strapped at their side, missing his own weapon more acutely. He will need to obtain one of those soon.

He’s heading back to the scribe's quarters when he hears noises. He peeks around the wall to see a slight, pale man leading another by the arm, the latter being obviously inebriated. The two round the corner and the first man’s eyes widen when he sees him before narrowing. “What are you doing here?”

Zitao bows low. “I had the need to use the privy and got lost, Sir.”

The man, whom he recognizes as the same attendant from Prince Yifan’s chambers, eyes him warily before gesturing behind him. “It is not wise to be wandering the corridors at this time of the night. The guards do not yet know your face and you may be confused for an enemy.” His tone is cold.

Zitao bows again, nose wrinkling at the strong smell of spirits coming off the second man, whose head is tilted to the side, appraising him. His skin is fair and his long black hair falls over his shoulders loosened from it’s topknot. There’s a hint of something dark in his eyes that has Zitao swallowing nervously, eager to leave the scene. He waits till the pair pass by before returning to the scribe’s bedchamber. The jitters hit him as soon as he lies down, minute twitches and jerks of his limb that come about when he’s tense and he grits his teeth, willing them to pass quicker. His sleep that night is fitful.

  
***  


Yifan is awakened the next morning by the sounds of yelling and thuds coming from the corridor. Squinting, he pushes the sheets away, hunting around for his outer robe as he tries to identify the source of the commotion. His knife lies on a table beside him and he takes it with him.

The corridor is in chaos, several guards crowded around a small figure that is flailing, white robes billowing and Yifan’s heart sinks when he sees who it is. Jun Mian has a tight grip their father’s right hand as he desperately tries to talk the man down from one of his psychotic episodes, guards standing warily in the periphery. Yifan takes his father’s other hand, repeating “I’m here, father, I’m here” until their father relaxes and slumps over. Yifan gestures for the guards to take him back to his chamber, turning to the royal physician. “Dose him with a stronger sedative this time.”

Jun Mian turns to the rest of the people crowded in the corridor. “Well? Is this a troupe performance that all you imbeciles think to stand around with your mouths open?” he barks and the onlookers scuttle away, familiar with the First Prince’s wrath. Yifan sighs, rubbing his face as he join his brother. “His attacks are getting worse.”

Jun Mian shakes his head, thin-lipped. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do anymore. He’s turned into a madman.”

“Watch yourself!” Yifan hisses, grabbing Jun Mian’s wrist and steering him to the side. “It would do no good for the servants to hear that kind of talk, especially from the heir.”

Jun Mian yanks his hand away. “So what if they do? Everyone knows it. The Great Emperor Wu reduced to a baby that can’t even use the latrine on his own. You’re blind if you don't think the court has taken notice.” Jun Mian stalks off down the corridor and Yifan exhales heavily, feeling a dull throbbing in his head. Wordlessly, Yixing appears by his side and gently places an arm on his sleeve. “I’ll have the servants bring up some chamomile tea.” Yifan sighs softly and thanks him, turning to retreat back into his bedchamber.

He frowns when he notices the bed is empty until a figure pops out from behind the door, hair askew and struggling under the weight of his sword. He bursts into laughter at the sight. “What on earth were you trying to do?”

Xiulan makes a face before dropping the sword. “I thought that perhaps an intruder had broken into the chamber. I had to take something to protect myself.”

Yifan picks up the sword easily, returning it to it’s scabbard. “Perhaps fate was mistaken when it made you a concubine, you were clearly destined to be Eastern Wu’s greatest warrior.” Xiulan frowns at the teasing, a stray lock of hair falling into her eyes, the ends skimming near the open collar of her robes and if he didn't have other more pressing affair to attend to, Yifan would’ve pulled her back into bed right that instant. Instead he reaches over to fix her hair. “There was no intruder in hallway, rest assured.” He sighs. “Father had another episode.”

He hears her soft exhalation. “Is there anything I can do?”

He hums softly, passing her her outer robe. “Accompany me today in the conference chambers. I’ll be dictating letters for the war generals, it’ll be incredibly dull.”

Her mouth quirks up. “Shall I bring my lute?”

“Musical accompaniment would be excellent.” He replies. Xiulan bows, straightening her clothing once more before she exits, accompanied by the servant who brings him his tea. The chamomile soothes his headache somewhat and he manages to regain some composure as he heads to the conference hall, Yixing at his side.

The scribes all bow as he enters and he notices the new one standing at the very end, looking out of place with his blue overcoat while the others are clad in red, the traditional uniform of the royal scribes. Yifan pulls Yixing to his side, gesturing towards the newcomer. “Why is he here?”

Yixing grimaces. “Two of the regular scribes are down with gout and one broke his wrist after one two many bottles of rice wine. We need the extra pair of hands.”

Yifan frowns, eyeing the other distrustfully. “I don’t like having unknowns in our midsts particularly when it concerns matter as delicate as these.”

Yixing nods. “I understand. I shall have him return to the scribe's quarters.”

Yifan pauses. “Do that but have him come to my chambers after the evening meal. I have more correspondence that needs to be drafted, including a letter to Lord Baito acknowledge his gift.”

“Very well.” Yixing heads over to the new scribe, bending down to speak with him and Yifan draws his attention away, beckoning to the nearest one to start writing as he dictates.

It is nearing midday when they adjourn and Yifan has nothing but a stack of letters, a sore throat and a crick in his neck to show for it. Messengers are called to dispatch the writing and he can then finally head for his chambers, scrabbling irritably at his headpiece as soon as he’s behind closed doors. Yixing comes forward to help him remove it. “Shall I send for your meal, your highness?”

“Please do. And have the new scribe sent in, I might as well get this letter done with as well.” Yifan sheds his heavy outer robe, rolling his shoulders back to release some of the tension. “Where is Xiulan?”

“The Madame summoned her to the harem, I’ll let her know you desire her company.”  
Yixing bows one final time before leaving again. Shortly thereafter three servants enter, bearing a tray laden with food that they set before him. He dismisses them with a curt nod, reaching forward for the ivory chopsticks balanced on the ceramic bowl.

He almost misses the scrape of the door being opened, a bit too concerned with stuffing his face full of beef in a manner that would have made his royal tutor go into hysterics. It isn’t until Yixing clears his throat that he looks up, cheeks full and almost chokes from swallowing too fast. The scribe stands behind Yixing, head bowed deferentially but there’s an upward curve to his lips and Yifan flushes, reaching for a napkin to wipe his mouth. Yixing gives him a bemused look. “Scribe Zitao, your highness.”

“Thank you.” He responds, coughing slightly before addressing the other. “Prepare your materials, you’ll be transcripting a letter to your old master for me.”

Wordlessly the scribe bows and kneels, deftly unscrolling a roll of hemp paper which he pins to a small wooden frame. The ink pot is next, handled with the greatest care so as not to spill any of the precious liquid inside. He is poised with pen over paper, eyes flitting upwards for a quick second towards him.

“Begin by saying we are grateful to him for his most generous gift.” he dictates, throat dry. The scribe works deftly, movements of his brush precise. He pauses and Yifan continues, stumbling over his words. “Say that his loyalty as a subject to our king has always been noted by his highness. Wish him good health and fortune for his fields. Um….” He wracks his brain, trying to think of something to add.

“Will you be enquiring after the health of his son, my lord?” It’s spoken so softly that he almost misses it, the subtle shift of movement from the boy in front of him. Of course. Lord Pak’s invalid son. “Yes. Say that we pray for his son’s well-being.” He worries at his lip slightly, musing. “Maybe have the royal physician send a few poultices.”

The scribes murmurs his assent and continues, room quiet save for the soothing scratch of pen over paper. Yifan’s mind drifts instead to other matters of importance. He must consult the royal physician about the Emperor, drag Jun Mian out and have him in semblance of proper order before their meeting with Lord Sun and then return to pore over the war maps. He’s caught up in his musing, almost misses the soft gasp and muffled curse. His eyes widen as he stares at the other boy, the scribe looking shocked at his own lapse in manners. “F-forgive me my liege, I-”

“What’s wrong?” He sees the stiff angle of the boy’s right hand. “Are you hurt?”

“No, my lord, my sleeve-” Yifan leans closer, sees how the edge of the boy’s sleeve is caught in the inkpot, white silk stained black. He sees the scribe’s conundrum, if he tries to pull his hand away, he risks smearing the paper, if he raises it, the ink will drip on to the rug. He approaches, kneeling beside him and reaching to grip his sleeve. He shifts it up slowly, ignoring the soft gasp it elicits. The skin under his fingertips is smooth and he wants to let his touch linger but propriety won’t allow for it. He waits till the sleeve fabric is almost all out of the inkwell before smoothly sliding his hand underneath swiftly as he pulls it all the way. Ink drips onto his hand as he guides the scribe’s arm back until it’s a safe distance away from the paper. The other swiftly uses his hand to sop up the remaining ink, face flushed. “My lord, you shouldn’t have dirtied yourself for my mistake.” He makes to bow for his mistake but Yifan waves him off, pointing to the basin in the corner of the room. “Wash up and then finish writing.” It comes out more brusque than he’d intended but it spurs the scribe into action.

His own palm is black, ink itching as it dries onto his skin but he covers it with his sleeve, not yet wanting to stand and wash up. The scribe finishes clipping the paper away, deftly rolling it into a scroll and sealing it with wax. Yifan beckons him forward, pressing his rings into the still warm wax until the dragon insignia is pressed onto the wax. There’s silence and then he coughs, scratching at the back of his head. “You may leave now.”

“My lord.” The scribe bows low before gathering his equipment before he heads to the door. Xiulan enters just as he’s about to leave, looking up in surprise before acknowledging him with a small dip of her head. He returns the gesture before leaving, door closing softly behind him.

“Is that the new scribe?” Xiulan makes her way over to him, kneeling so that she’s seated to his right. “I heard Can Li talking about him. He seems young.”

“I haven’t asked him his age.” Yifan gestures to the table in front of him, now cold food still on the plates. “Have you eaten?”

“I am not hungry.” Xiulan looks vaguely ill at even the idea of eating, dark circles under her eyes prominent and Yifan feels a flicker of concern, finger coming up to trace the skin. “Are you ill?”

Xiulan shakes her head. “The Madame kept me busy but it is nothing I cannot endure. What about you, my Lord? You’ve been working all day.”

“Yifan.” he admonishes her, reclining until his head is in her lap, small fingers running through his hair, tugging out small combs. “If The Madame is overworking you, I can have a word with her-”

“No, Yifan.” Xiulan’s tone is firm. “You do not understand the politics of the harem, any intervention on your part would make matters worse.”

He knows better than to argue and settles for settling against her thighs and letting her soothing fingers lull him to sleep.

  
***  


“Zitao, wake up, wake up, wake up!” An overly cheery voice invades his eardrums and he groans, trying to roll over on his side. Someone starts batting at his face and he curses, pushing himself up on one elbow. “Can Lie, stop that!”

Can Lie’s face hovers over him, smile wide and Zitao resists the urge to hit him. “It’s almost time for breakfast, you should hurry.”

Zitao curses again, kicking the blankets off in his haste to get dressed. He’s been at the palace for three weeks now and he’s still not quite used to having to get up so late, his normal dawn exercises no longer plausible in a room filled with other men who might wonder why a scribe knows the wushu poses. The extra sleep serves the purpose of making him lethargic and irritable in the mornings and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s nearly missed breakfast because of it. He dresses quickly, tugging on the official scribe uniform that had been made for him, Can Lie tying his hair back as Zitao tries not to wince at his less than gentle tugging. Once done, they file out with the others to the small corner room near the kitchens where all the lower members of the royal household eat. A small bowl of rice with vegetables is what they scarf down before going to be assigned to their duties for the day. Zitao learns that assignments like the one he’d gotten for the second prince are incredibly rare to come by, most of the important military work and personal correspondence is done by the more senior scribes. The rest of them are assigned to taking records, keeping inventories or on one particularly tiring day, censuses. He’s obtained no new worthy intel and the frustration is starting to creep up on him.

Today however, he and Can Lie are assigned to the imperial harem, earning them envious glances from the others. The make their way upstairs, Can Lie bouncing ahead in his glee and Zitao having to stop himself from leading the way since this part of the palace is technically supposed to be unknown to him. He hasn’t done his midnight excursions lately, for whatever reason Commander Chen seems to have increased security and Zitao knows better than to take the risk. Even with the three or four sessions he’d had, he’s gained a good idea of where everything is located and he’d been able to charm the location of several secret nooks and shortcuts out of the servant girls.

The harem is still mostly foreign to him, all but the royals and eunuchs barred from entering it and it’s an isolated building located towards the east of the lower quarters. They’re searched before they can enter and then a eunuch escorts them to a large sitting area, where several women are seated, some reading while others are sipping tea primly in small groups. All look up when they enter and Zitao drops into a bow at Can Lie’s nudge. Song Qian, the harem Madame and the King’s favored concubine tips her chin at them, letting them rise. Zitao stares at her from under his lashes, having heard tales of her beauty and she finds that they were not wrong. There is a cruel twist to her mouth, however and Zitao knows instantly that she is one to be feared. A woman does not rise to the top of the imperial ranks on looks alone and he has no doubt Song Qian has the power to destroy those who earn her ire. She speaks then, voice high and loud enough to carry in the small chamber. “Are you the scribes?” Can Lie responds in affirmation and she gestures to the side where two writing tables have already been placed. “Prepare your materials.”

They set up silently and begin recording. She has Can Lie outline measurements of fabrics that need to be ordered before the Spring Festival, while her second in command makes Zitao record the names of all the concubines and their ages, the ones who will soon be removed and married off due to age and the new girls who were brought in. There’s almost three hundred women in the harem and his wrist aches by the end of it, muscles tense and neck sore and it is with great relief that he gets to put his pen down after two hours to accept the food that the servants bring up.

A pale, moon-faced girl with teardrop shaped eyes approaches him as he eats, kneeling before him. He recognizes her instantly, Xiulan, the concubine he’d seen while leaving the Second Prince’s chamber. His intel reveals that she is a favourite of the second prince, the only concubine he calls to his chamber and Zitao is certain that the pale, fey creature in front of him holds valuable information. He puts down his chopsticks, tipping his head in her direction. “Can I help you?”

She nods, retrieving a small piece of paper from within her sleeves. “Yes. I went to the royal physician yesterday and he wrote down some herbs I should take but his writing is a bit difficult for me to decipher. Could you take a look?” He accepts the paper, squinting at the messy characters. “Does the man write with his foot?” he mutters to himself, Wei dialect slipping into the syllables and eliciting a small smile from the woman in front of him. He pulls a piece of paper out, slowly writing down the character he can make out. He isn’t well versed in medicine but the herbs don’t strike him as anything noteworthy powdered ginger, chamomile tea, lemon balm poultice. He passes the new list over to her with a small bow of his head. “I hope your health improves, my lady.”

“Thank you.” He gets another smile before she rises, leaving him to resume poking at his now-cold rice. Can Lie nudges him in the side, grin teasing. “She’s a lovely one, isn’t she?”

“She is.” he answers, tone neutral but still drawing another laugh from his partner. Both fall silent when Madame Qian looks over at them. After the food is cleared away, they resume their tasks until she dismisses them with a flick of her hand, eyes already looking away as they clear up materials. “Where is Xiulan?” she snaps at another girl. 

“The Second Prince called her away, Madame.” Song Qian’s eyes flicker before she strides away, steps light against the floor but with barely concealed rage in her posture. Zitao and Can Lie take advantage of the moment to slip away. Can Lie groans as he rubs at his wrist bones. “She is a hard taskmaster, Madame Qian is.”

“I suppose one has to be when you are the head of the harem.” Zitao responds as they navigate the path from the harem to the lower buildings. “Her reputation is well known across the kingdom.”

“Well, if the gossipers are correct than not for much longer.” They duck around a group of servant men, carrying a large boar between them. Can Lie looks back at them, gaze longing. “I pray some of that gets saved for us.”

“The gossipers?” Zitao prompts, trying not to groan at his partner’s airheadedness. “What do you mean “not for much longer”?”

“Ah,” Can Lie looks around before leaning closer to whisper. “Well, you know Madame Qian was the Emperor’s favored concubine? More dear to him than the late Empress, rest her soul.”

“I am aware.” 

“Well, there is gossip amongst the courtiers that Madame Qian is losing her power. The Emperor is ailing and the likelihood of Prince Jun Mian replacing him draws nearer. He and Prince Yifan have never cared for Madame Qian and she fears that should Prince Jun Mian marry and take to the throne, that she will be sent away from the harem. She hasn’t managed to bear a son for the Emperor, she has no bargaining power in her possession should he die.”

“I see.” Zitao kicks open the doors to the scribes’ chambers, uncharacteristically empty given that many are still at work. “Does Prince Jun Mian have a preferred concubine? One who could potentially be her successor?”

Can Lie snorts as he flops onto his pallet. “Hardly. The Prince’s favour lasts about as long as as the wind, he switches from girl to girl like a bee in a flower field.”

“Well, when you’re as spoiled for choice as he is.” Zitao puts away his writing utensils neatly, casting a disapproving eye at Can Lie who hasn’t moved to clean his.

“Now the Second Prince, he’s different. He only ever calls for Xiulan, the concubine you were talking to earlier. She is said to be his closest confidante.”

“Strange that two brothers can be so different.” Zitao murmurs, lying down beside Can Lie. “How long is it till the evening meal?”

Can Lie cranes his neck to look out the window. “Another hour I’d wager.”

“Wake me up, then.” Zitao mutters, shutting his eyes.

It feels all too soon that he’s being shaken awake, drool dried on his cheek as the other scribes get ready to head to the main table. He follows along, still half asleep as Can Lie stumbles behind him.

Everyone is delighted to find that some of the boar has been left over for them and the stew is consumed greedily, Zitao swallowing so fast he burns his tongue. There’s pomegranate to be eaten right after and Zitao offers to cut them open for everyone. When the others are consumed with eating, he slides the knife up his sleeve, cold metal pressed against skin. He leaves the hall earlier than the rest, ignoring requests to stay for a game of Xianqi. He steals away to the room to hide the dagger away under a loose floorboard by the window before crawling into his pallet.

Unconsciously his mind wanders towards the concubine from earlier, the softness of her skin, the faint aroma of jasmine clinging to her clothes. He imagines larger hands encircling those thin wrists, tugging her closer and his mouth falls open, exhale loud in the quiet of the room. He think of the second prince’s touch, hot like a brand against his skin, and gasps, hands moving almost of their own volition past his outer robe, lingering only briefly at the curve of his waistband before sliding downwards.

He avoids this act, has been taught that is shameful by his masters, a blatant waste of Yang but he can’t help himself, the touch of his hand a sweet torturous friction, mind betraying him further as he throws his head back, pictures Xiulan in the same position, the second prince hovering over her, lips at her throat, her breasts, her stomach, hands spreading her thighs and then suddenly it’s him under the second prince, him who’s scratching his nails down the expanse of his back and he spills into his own fist, mind clouded as he comes down from his high, the aftereffects sticky and tinged with shame.

  
***  


There’s an elaborate scroll on his breakfast tray that morning, the red wax seal showing it to be a royal message and Yifan frowns down at it, gesturing for Yixing to kneel besides him as he breaks the seal. “When did this arrive?”

“Earlier this morning, a messenger came from Wei. It was addressed to your father but I had them bring it to you.” Yixing says. “You should open it.”

Yifan nods, breaking the seal and unfurling the scroll. The script is elegant, the work of a master scribe and he takes a moment to appreciate the brushwork. The letter is full of the usual platitudes of good relations and blessings. He frowns when he reaches the end and turns to face Yixing, whose own expression is one of shock. “They wish for us to come to Wei for a meeting of the Royal houses.”

“It is a trap.” Yixing says instantly. “Refuse, my lord.”

Yifan shakes his head. “I cannot do anything until I have consulted the council. Besides, there is more than just a meeting.” He turns the scroll outwards so Yixing can read it. “They are offering a marriage between Jun Mian and Princess Cao Lu as a way of reaffirming the peace treaty.”

“A marriage.” Yixing looks confused. “What do they gain from it?”

“That is the question.” Yifan pushes his tray away, appetite gone. “Call the council to the meeting room.”

An hour later he’s seated in the council room, at Jun Mian’s right hand side, his older brother having taken their father’s seat due to the older man’s absence. The room is silent as Jun Mian finishes reading out the letter. Then the head advisor speaks, voice echoing around the room. “It would be wise for us to accept the proposal.”

“But we do not whether Wei’s intentions are pure.” Yifan argues. “This could be their way of luring us into complacency before they attack.”

“They won’t attack us.” Jun Mian speaks from his right, drawing all eyes towards him. “We have the stronger army and they would be insane to go up against our forces.”

“You underestimate their trickery.” Yifan retorts. Jun Mian fixes him with a glare. “You forget your place, brother.” They glower at each other until another advisor clears his throat.

“I believe,” he says, voice reedy, “that we should accept the offer of a strategy meeting. If an engagement can be arranged between the Princess and the First Prince then so be it. It is my belief that the Royal’s of Wei are sincere in their offer. Princess Cao Lu is her father’s favourite, it is highly unlikely he would use her as a pawn in his political strategies. At best, the meeting can help us discern whether Wei could pose a greater threat to us in the future.”

“I’ll send a messenger out with our response.” Jun Mian gestures for a scribe to make his way over. “Prepare a retinue for me, we shall leave in three days time.”

“No.” the room turns to stare at Yifan and he raises his head, meeting Jun Mian’s gaze. “If one of us must go, then let it be me. If our suspicions should be true, it is better that I be captured than you.”

There is silence and then Jun Mian nods. “Very well. You will leave in three days time with a selection of men. Have Commander Chen assign his best guards for your protection.”

The meeting is adjourned and Jun Mian stomps away before Yifan can speak with him. Instead he turns to his own chambers, beckoning Yixing forward. “We need to plan on who will be accompanying me to Wei.”

“I’ll have Commander Chen submit a list of guards. You will need at least two attendants and a scribe.”

“One of the attendants should be you, the other-ask for Xianhua. The scribe…” Yifan pauses. “The gift from Lord Pak.”

Yixing frowns. “My lord, if I may, he is far too inexperienced for an official visit such as this.”

“He is a Huang.” Yifan counters. “So he will be fluent in the dialect of Wei. It could prove useful on our journey.”

“He is a _Huang_.” Yixing counters, lips pursed. “Therefore you will understand why I do not trust his motives.”  
Yifan stops in his tracks, not turning back to face his advisor. “Your forget your place, Lord Zhang.” he intones coldly.  
He sees Yixing flinch at the use of his title, pursing his lips in disapproval but the other man acquiesces. They return to the chamber and Yixing leaves to speak with Commander Chen. Yifan pulls out one his maps, pinning it into place on the table as he traces the quickest route from Suzhou to the Capital of Wei. A guard interrupts him some time later. “Lord Lin wishes to have a meeting with you, my liege.”

He frowns, rolling the map up. “Send him in.” It is unusual for the head advisor to request a private meeting with him and he is immediately suspicious. The man enters, bowing and waiting for permission to be seated. Yifan does not grant it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asks, tone blunt.

Lord Lin waits till the guard is gone before speaking. “It concerns the matter of the Wei proposal, Second Prince.”

“Why were any queries regarding the matter not brought up at the meeting?”

“This query is of a more...delicate nature.” Lord Lin keeps his face placid. “The councilors have long since recognized our Second Prince’s prowess in matters of the state, particularly after the illness of our the Emperor.”

“You are too kind.” Yifan responds, suspicions growing at the sudden flattery. “I only seek to to do my duty for our great Kingdom.”

“Indeed. But it seems that our Second Prince cares more about the kingdom, is more dedicated to the duty, than say-” Lord Lin pauses. “The Crown Prince.”

Yifan stares at him. “Enough of this side-stepping court talk. Speak bluntly or leave.”

Lord Lin flinches but steels himself, calm demeanor returned once more. “The advisors council is of the view that the First Prince lacks the wisdom and ethic to lead this kingdom to fruitfulness, particularly in tense times such as these. They wish for you to be crowned emperor in his stead and marry Princess Cao Lu.”

“You dare stand before me and speak such treason.” Yifan breathes out slowly, attempting to keep his anger in check. “My brother is the heir, it is his right as the first son and I shall not invoke the gods’ wrath by attempting to steal the throne from him.”

“But if circumstances were to change.” Lord Lin claps his hands together, tone persuasive. “The the throne would rightfully be yours, under law.”

It takes a second for the implication to set in and then Yifan is rising to his feet, striding forward to grab the man by the collar, his taller stature easily overpowering him. “You whore’s son.” he hisses. “I should have you stripped naked and whipped in the city square for your actions.”

Lord Lin flails in his grip, his eyes wide. “My Prince.” he gasps out, trying to push the taller away. Yifan lets him fall to the ground and the other scrambles to stand. “Leave.” Yifan orders. “And if you value your life and status to any degree, you will never breathe a word of this again.” The man does not need to be told twice, all but running towards the door.

Yifan paces the room, lingering vestiges of anger still on his mind. He takes a bottle of rice wine left behind by a servant and swallows half the contents in one go. Coughing, he makes his way to the bed, falling against the silk sheets, wine spilling across the pristine surface. He drinks until the world blurs away, until there’s no duty or obligations, just sweet, merciful silence.

  
***  


Zitao stands to the side as the head scribe inspects the contents of his luggage, rearranging items to make more room. The cold press of the steel blade against his lower back has him standing stiffly, back ramrod straight as he waits for the other to finish with his inspection. Once he has been given the all clear, a guard comes to take the baggage, hefting it over one shoulder. The head scribe gestures for Zitao to follow behind and they make their way through the side chambers outside to the front courtyard where the members of the court are gathered to see the retinue off. The is seated on a carved wooden chair, wrapped in furs, flanked by the First Prince and Song Qian. Prince Yifan is knelt before his father, murmuring words too low to be heard and Zitao eyes the long slope of his back, the broadness of his shoulders. He stands and the entire court hushes as the priest steps forward, beginning the prayer. They all bow their heads accordingly and the smoke from the incense wafts over, stings at Zitao’s eyes. The priest continues to chant loudly, tone startling the king who looks around, wild-eyed. The First Prince intercedes, putting a hand on his father’s arm and helping him stand. He and the Second Prince acknowledge each other with a short nod before the two are escorted inside and the priest finishes his chant. The courtiers clear a path to the animals and Zitao follows behind the guards, his height letting him see the courtiers faces as they walk past. Xiulan is standing to the side, face pale, and Zitao sees the Second Prince’s eyes flicker towards her, the small nod of his head. Then they’re at the horses and Zitao is being helped up onto his mount by a guard. They assemble into their formations, guards riding ahead of the Second Prince, his advisors fanning out behind him and the rest of the group in the rear. He starts when he feels the guard lead his horse forwards past the other scribe. “What are you doing?”

The guard-Da Long his brain supplies, recognizing him from the late night drinking games in the food hall- grunts as he weaves them through the other horses. “The Prince requested you ride behind the advisors. He needs you close by as the translator.”

Zitao clutches the reins tighter as the broad shoulders of the Second Prince come into view. The Prince is leaning in to speak with his guard, the long line of his neck visible and Zitao swallows, tries not to think about how he'd fantasized about pressing his lips there countless times this past week. His horse his pulled up alongside the Prince’s white mare and Zitao fixes his eyes on the patterns on the horse's reins, not yet trusting himself to look up. Mercifully (or perhaps, disappointingly) the Prince does not address him, turning to the head of the guard to ask whether the retinue has assembled. Once confirmed, he gives the order to move.

The excitement of being outside the palace walls after so many weeks is palpable and Zitao busies himself with observing the capital as they move through cordoned off roads, the city dwellers pausing to bow respectfully to the passing train. Suzhou is so much bigger than any other city Zitao has ever seen, swarms of people and animals everywhere, voices all rising to produce a strange melody. They take a shorter route and soon the city is being left behind and the green of the countryside is what surrounds them.

Zitao absentmindedly plays with his horse’s mane, eyes continually up flitting too watch the Second Prince. The other man is calm, his riding skill evident in his relaxed posture, barely shifting even as they reach a rocky patch in the road. He’s immersed in conversation with Lord Yixing, and Zitao wishes he could lean in and listen. The sudden departure for Wei has him uneasy. He hasn’t had a chance to contact Lord Bai since his arrival at the palace and he would not put it past the Lord to change his scheme without informing him. It’s been almost three moons since Zitao had left and it could be that the Lord is getting impatient that the First Prince is still alive. Maybe the goal of luring the Prince to Wei was to leave the palace with a limited guard. But then, the Wei royals would not take the risk of leaving any royal prince alive.

They ride till the sun begins to set in the evening and commander Chen leads the retinue to a small castle. The Lord and his family are expecting them and they are immediately swarmed by attentive servants as they arrive and Zitao gratefully accepts the help off his horse, muscles sore from a day of riding. The First Prince is conversing with their host, perfunctory smile in place as he accepts the bows and lets himself be introduced to the Lord’s large family. Zitao stifles a smile at the obvious flirtation of the Lord’s daughters. They’re led inside to the main dining hall and Zitao knows he’s not the only one who nearly cries when the food is placed before them. They barely retain their courtly manners as they eat and his belly has an unpleasant ache by the time the last of the dishes are cleared. The Prince and advisers are led to the grander bedchambers while the rest of the retinue spread their pallets out in the dining hall, now cleared of it's tables. The floor is lumpy, poorly placed tiles digging into his already body but exhaustion prevails and he soon finds himself asleep.  
The second day passes much like the first, Zitao adding to the lovely array of bruises on his thighs as they ride over a particularly rough road. The view at least is more interesting as they pass by small villages, children chasing after their horses, clambering over each other for the coins Prince Yifan tosses their way. They stay at a small country Lord's estate that night. The building is decidedly less grand than the last but their host is jovial and provides great entertainment in the form of a bard who regales them all with tales from his travels. Zitao watches the Second Prince closely, sees him quirk his lip up slightly at the clever poetry and has to fight to contain his own smile. He'd always thought the Second Prince much too uptight to find such jokes amusing.  
There is a break in the routine on the third day. A guard pulls his horse away from the mounts of the other scribes, startling them both in the process. Zitao stares down at him as the guard leads him ahead. “Where are you taking me?”

“The Second Prince requested your company.” The guard grunts out, weaving the horse through the tight formation until he's located beside the black mount Prince Yifan uses, guards flanking them on either side. The Second Prince is currently in conversation with their host and it is only once he straightens up and gives the signal that the retinue begins to proceed Zitao waits expectantly but the Second Prince says nothing, staring straight ahead impassively.  
The close proximity does allow him to observe the Prince out of the corner of his eye, openly admire the curve of his jaw, the arch of his eyebrow. He has a scar on his forehead, cutting jagged across one eyebrow. He'd gotten the scar at his father's coronation when the First Prince had accidentally pushed him off the ceremonial platform. The entire kingdom knew of the story, many joking that it didn't bode well for the Second Prince's future as a ruler. But if they could see him now, Zitao muses, regal atop his horse, face not betraying a hint of discomfort despite the constant jostling. Zitao is too preoccupied with trying to find a position on the saddle that won't chafe his buttocks, so he almost misses the soft cough on his side. When he looks over, the Second Prince is staring back at him, an amused quirk to his mouth. “Saddle sore?”  
Zitao flushes, trying to hide his grimace. “I am not used to being on a horse for such a long period of time, My Lord.” In all honesty, his trainers had tried to teach him riding but Zitao had always been mildly terrified of the beasts. The Second Prince nods understandingly. “I can't imagine a scribe has much use for riding, anyways.”  
They ride in silence for a few paces before the Prince speaks again. “I was hoping you could teach me some of the Wei dialect.”

Zitao is caught off guard. “The Wei dialect?”

The Prince nods. “I feel it would make a good diplomatic gesture if I greeted them in their own language. The guards tried to teach me some phrases.” Zitao has difficulty suppressing his amusement at the garbled jumble of sounds the Prince recites. The other just flushes in embarrassment and Zitao takes pity on him. “You are putting too much emphasis on your tones. I know we Wei folk sound guttural but not to this extent.”  
He coaches him through basic greetings, repeating the words slowly so the Prince can catch the subtle intonations. He's a quick study, managing a passable accent after a few repeats. Zitao is leaning over to speak when his horses slips suddenly on a patch of uneven land, and his grip on the reins is too loose to hold on. He falls to the side, landing on top of the prince and startling his mount. The prince manages to grab the reins and keep a grip on Zitao, still stuck by his feet in the saddle as his horse skids on the wet ground, other guards jerking to move out of the way. Commander Chen is the one who reacts first, jumping from his own mount and managing to grab the panicked horse’s reins, bringing him to a slow trot. Zitao is pressed against the Second Prince's chest, stiff and terrified and it takes him a few moments to realize that someone’s calling his name. His hands are clenched to the Second Prince’s robes, grip white knuckled and it isn’t until the guards manage to get his feet free from the saddle that he lets go. Large hands help him move to a more stable position and he belatedly realises that his back is pressed up against the solid warmth of the Prince Yifan’s chest. Commander Chen is inspecting the horse’s legs, clicking his tongue. “It is not broken but there is enough strain on it, that it would be a miracle if the beast made it all the way to Wei.” He glances over at them before gesturing to one of the foot soldiers. “Saddle up another mount for scribe Huang.”

“There's no need.” The Prince interrupts him. “It will take too long and we must reach Lord Yang's residence by sundown. We can ride like this till then and see about getting a new horse once we arrive.”  
Zitao flushes, suddenly too aware of the close proximity between them and the curious eyes of the other men. “There's no need for that, my liege, I do not wish to be a burden.” The Second Prince shakes his head, tone brusque. “It is no burden, my mount is strong enough to carry us both. And this way you can help me with my phrases as we travel.” He gestures for the Commander to start riding and wordlessly the retinue moves forward once more.

Zitao can feel the adrenaline from before begin to fade away and in it's wake settles in a bone deep exhaustion and he wants nothing more than to get off this accursed horse and curl up on the ground to sleep. The Second Prince's arm is pressing against his waist as he reaches around him to hold the reins. “Why are you trembling?” he asks, concern in his tone.  
Zitao is too exhausted to try and deny it. “I have a fear of horses, my liege.” he murmurs, low enough that the Prince has to lean in to hear him over the din. “My mother wished that I learn to ride so I would go to lessons with all the soldier's children. The horses never liked me and after one nearly imprinted his hoof into my skull, I stopped.”

“Ah, so the incident earlier must have been twice as frightening for you.” Zitao starts when the Prince takes one of his hands, guiding it to the horse's mane. “But you can trust Thunder. He's a feisty one to control during races but gentle as a mare while trotting.” Zitao smiles, strokes his hand down the horse's neck a few times. They ride in silence for a few more paces until the Prince clears his throat again. “You were teaching me how to ask for more wine?”

Zitao dozes off sometimes in the afternoon, rousing only when the horse stops. Rubbing at his eyes, he cranes his head back to meet the amused stare of the Second Prince. “Did you enjoy your rest, scribe Huang?”

Zitao is mortified to realize that he's fallen asleep pressed up against the Prince, even more so when he sees the wet patch on his outer robe. The Prince waves away his stuttered apologies, gesturing towards the residence ahead. “That is Lord Yang's residence. He is a loyal subject and a very well educated man but his taste can be a bit-” The Prince pauses. “Gaudy. You shall see.”

Half an hour later Zitao finds himself sitting at a massive oak table, staring in disbelief at the gilded plates being set before them, the bright blue and white of the pottery clashing horribly with the gold table cloth and the effect makes his eyes ache. It would still be bearable if they had food in front of them but Lord Yang has made the idiotic decision of having a performance troupe perform before the meal, not realizing that an audience of hungry, weary men is an unappreciative one. When the meal is finally served, the guests must all wait for the Lord to finish regaling them with boasts of the price of the ingredients, the difficulty in procuring the meats and so on. Zitao feels especially bad for the Second Prince who has to deal with the old man's jabbering at a close range. He catches his eye briefly and the Prince breaks his stoic demeanor to give a small grimace before turning his attention back to their host. They make eye contact several more times, each incident making Zitao duck his head, warm flush travelling up his neck and he's grateful when the meal ends and the Prince is led to his bedchamber.  
He's not sure what it is that rouses him from his sleep in the middle of the night, perhaps he's not as tired since he’d slept earlier in the day. There's a pressure on his bladder, not quite hard enough to be an annoyance but he stands anyways, picking his way through sleeping bodies as he heads to the privy.  
The privies are located outdoor and he appreciates the cool air on his face, refreshing enough to wipe some of the sleep from his eyes. He finishes relieving himself, adjusting his robes as he steps out into the night air. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, dismisses it as being one of the guards he’d nodded to earlier. He sets out again towards the main building.  
He stills when he hears the sound, sharp and piercing. He looks around, trying to determine the source. He wants to dismiss it as a figment of his imagination but there's another muffled groan and the thump of something large hitting the ground. Panicked, he searches frantically for a place to hide, squeezing himself into a small marble alcove as footsteps grow closer. He bites off a choked gasp as he sees the face of the intruder, moonlight glinting off the curved dagger in his hand. The man moves swiftly past him, footsteps lithe and if Zitao had any doubts before, the gait confirms his suspicions: This man is an assassin. There is only one person here who would warrant this and Zitao feels his panic grow as he steps from the alcove, kicking his sandals aside to make his steps quieter. Zitao can not let the Second Prince fall to this man's blade, the entire scheme will fall apart if Yifan dies and Jun Mian ascends to the throne. He runs in the same direction the assassin went, not bothering to alert the outside guards as he has no doubt the two he'd met earlier are bleeding into the soil.

His training has taught him to move quickly, ever alert for the sounds of others and if he strains, he can detect the faintest scuffle as the assassin moves. He's clever, Zitao realizes when he sees the guard posts empty as they move through the corridors. Most likely a diversion was put in place before he entered the house to clear away any guards besides the Prince's own, and Zitao has no doubt he will be able to dispose of them easily.

Sure enough, the grand bedchamber's door has the corpses of two guards splayed in front of it and Zitao blanches as he recognizes one-Da Long- staring up at him with unseeing eyes. He fights down the nausea, stepping over the corpses to enter the bedchamber.

The assassin has his blade out but turns when he hears Zitao. The latter barely has time to react before the assassin flies at him, knife raised and manages to avoid it just barely, rolling into a defensive stance. His training kicks in and he's back on his feet, reaching for an ornamental cane besides the wall, wielding it as a makeshift _Bo_ staff. The knife scratches against the wood as he parries with the assassin and Zitao takes a moment to think of Lord Yang's reaction to this when he sees his precious trinket thus marred. He dodges as best he can, trying to make as much noise as possible to rouse the prince. The assassin realizes this and changes tactics, aiming a kick to Zitao's knee that has him buckling. The prince is stirring now and the assassin moves to the bed, knife poised.  
There's a loud yell that Zitao will later realize came from him and then he throws himself at the man, uncaring of the ache in his leg. They roll around the floor, wrestling for the knife and Zitao can hear the sound of footsteps drawing closer, the guards will be here soon, he thinks gratefully, the momentary lapse in concentration costing him dearly. The assassin twists and then there's white hot pain up his side and he realizes he's been stabbed. The assassin rolls over atop him, hands coming to his neck and Zitao tries to struggle, brings his hands up to push at him. The assassin's face is covered with a black cloth, eyes flint cold as he brings his hands to Zitao's throat, squeezes hard enough that he sees spots dancing in front of his vision and he realizes, with a sinking finality, that he is about to die.  
Then suddenly the weight is off him and he chokes, gasping wetly as he fights to bring oxygen back into his lungs. The sound of the bedchamber door being kicked open is heard and the stomps of several pairs of footsteps. Zitao lies there, clutching at his side weakly as he cranes his head to see whether the prince is safe. He _needs_ to be.  
The Second Prince has his hand on his sword hilt, breathing harshly as he hold onto it for balance, two guards on either side trying to assist him to stand up. Zitao follows the path of the sword, sees where the end is embedded in the assassin's back. He drags his gaze away, and meets the Prince's eyes, tries to smile weakly before the creeping tendrils of black pull him under.

  
***  


Yifan hasn't stopped shaking.  
The tremors set in after the guards took away the assassin's body, Commander Chen white faced as he'd ordered the men to search the area for any accomplices. He's lead to the bed, has a glass of wine pushed into his hands but he doesn't drink, only stares ahead dully, mind still echoing with the slick noise the sword had made as it ripped through flesh and sinew. Yifan is not a killer, has been trained in the art of the sword but has never relished in the thought of wielding it.  
His attention is drawn to the floor where the surgeon, summoned hastily from his bedchamber and still clad in his underclothes, is crouched next to the unmoving figure of scribe Huang, barking orders to his assistant as he pours a liquid onto the wound, the sharp smell filling the room. Zitao is barely conscious but his cry is still loud enough to make the hairs on his arm stand on end and Yifan doesn't realize he's moved, cup knocked to the floor until he's perched by the scribe's side. The surgeon gives him a curious look but doesn't question it, merely gestures towards Zitao's hand. “He's about to be experience a world of pain, my Lord, prepare yourself.”  
Sure enough, the first stitch has Zitao gripping his hand hard enough that Yifan swears he feels his bones crunch. The boy is crying silently, biting down on the root the assistant had pushed between his teeth and Yifan reaches over to wipe away the stray droplets. Zitao’s gaze flits around before locking on his, unseeing and hazy and Yifan feels an overwhelming surge of protectiveness. He combs back his hair, murmuring encouragement to him as the surgeon stitches, fancying that he can provide some relief from the pain.  
It's several agonizing minutes before the surgeon pulls away to cut the twine. Zitao's grip has rendered Yifan's hand numb by now but he still doesn't pull away until the assistant pours the sleeping draught down the scribe's throat. The surgeon wipes his bloody hands as they watch Zitao's eyelids flicker shut. “The knife missed his lung but it struck him deep. Whether he heals now is between him and the gods.” The surgeon finishes cleaning up his tools before bowing to Yifan. “I request my leave now, my liege.”  
Commander Chen comes in after the servants have finished fashioning a makeshift bed for scribe Huang on the floor, leery of shifting him in his current position. Yifan has moved back to the bed, eyes listless as he listens to the stomps of the soldiers outside. Commander Chen kneels besides the bed, sword held forth in his hands. Yifan blinks down at him. “What are you doing?”  
The Commander swallows, ashen-faced. “I was entrusted with the safety of My Prince and yet an assassin nearly slew you in your sleep. I have failed in my duty and the only recompense for that is death.” The sword is presented again and just the sight of the steel blade had bile climbing up his throat. He grabs for it, throwing it to the side with a loud clang. “No,” he rasps out. “Your duty is to keep me safe and you shall fulfill it by escorting me back to Suzhou.”  
The Commander stares up at him, his normally sharp face looking gaunt. “We will return to the Capital, My Prince?”

“Yes.” Yifan stands and begins to pace, mind whirring as he tries to articulate his thoughts. “The assassin bore no identification on his person but one can assume he is of a high skill caliber that few could afford. I have no doubt the Royals of Wei are behind this in some form and I'll be damned if I play into their hands.” He stops his pacing. “Send a messenger to Wei and inform them that the meeting of the Royal Houses shall not occur. We must prepare the retinue to leave by dawn's light.” His gaze flits to Zitao. “Have Lord Yang provide us with a carriage for scribe Huang.”

Yixing is waiting for him when he rouses from his fitful sleep a few hours later. “My Prince.” he breathes out, aiming for his regular propriety but Yifan sees the tremble in his hands, knows how frightened Yixing must have been. He lets the other bustle about the room, helping him get dressed. He hesitates when he sees the sword, blade now clean but in Yifan's eyes, he can still see it embedded in the assassin's back. Yixing binds it to him anyways, eyes apologetic. A servant knocks on the bedchamber door, informing them that the retinue is ready.  
Lord Yang drops into a deep bow when he sees him, stuttering apologies for the incident and Yifan can only sigh and help the man to his feet, assuring him that he won't be punished. A small group of guards is waiting with a few of the other courtiers and Yifan frowns. “Where is the carriage?”  
Yixing is at his side, leading him to his horse. “The surgeon forbade us from moving scribe Huang while he is so injured and Commander Chen believes a carriage would only serve to slow us when we must return with the utmost haste to Suzhou.”  
Yifan frowns, the idea of leaving Zitao alone making his stomach churn. Yixing must see it flicker across his face as he places a placating hand on his arm. “Lord Yang has assured us that he will have his own guards escort scribe Huang back when the surgeon allows it. I know you worry for him but your own safety is far more important.”  
Yifan disagrees but saddles up anyways, nodding to the assembled household before giving the order to begin moving. It is a four day's ride but they manage it in under three, riding continuously until the horses are panting and lathered from exhaustion and Yifan can only feel a bone deep ache as they ride through the streets of Suzhou, the palace gates finally within sight. Word of their arrival has already spread and a small crowd is waiting to greet them. Jun Mian is standing at the forefront and Yifan has barely dismounted before he is pulled into a bone crushing embrace. He returns the gesture, slumping against his brother, suddenly weak and Jun Mian barks at the assembled maids to fetch him some wine.  
They eat together in Jun Mian's bedchamber after Yifan has submitted to a scrubbing from his attendants, the stink of riding no longer on his skin. Jun Mian is quiet as they eat and Yifan belatedly realizes how tried his brother looks, dark circles prominent under his thin layer of white powder. He must have worried constantly once the news reached him. For all their differences, Yifan and Jun Mian have never had enmity between them.  
Jun Mian coughs, breaking the silence. “Did they discover who sent the assassin?”  
Yifan shakes his head, gesturing for the servants to remove the tray, waiting till they have left before responding. “He had no marking on his person and the only other person who saw him alive was scribe Huang and he was in no state to give testimony.”  
“Scribe Huang.” Jun Mian furrows his brow. “Lord Pak's gift? He is the one who saved your life.”  
“Yes.” It feels heavy to acknowledge it openly, the debt Yifan owes to the young fox-eyed boy. The idea of what might have happened had Zitao not distracted the assassin is terrifying. “He took a blade in the chest while grappling with the assassin.”  
“Will he heal?”  
“The surgeon has hope.” Yifan's eyes are drooping, exhaustion finally catching up to him. Jun Mian stands and tugs him to his feet. “I will have the priests pray for him. But for now, you should rest.”  
The following days pass in a series of meetings, the advisory council convening every day to discuss matters. Yifan is mollified to see that more of the advisors now take his suspicions about Wei seriously despite some arguing that there is no proof linking the two. The messenger they had sent returns from Wei bearing well wishes for Yifan's health and an offer to hold the meeting of the two houses again at the summer solstice. Yifan takes great joy in setting the parchment on fire.  
A week passes before he receives word that a carriage has arrived at the gates of the palace, flanked by guards. He gets to his feet abruptly, almost knocking his tray over and earning a despairing cry from his attendants. Yixing runs to follow along as Yifan makes his ways through the corridors, heart thudding from the possibility of what he might find.  
The first thing they see is scribe Huang, lifted on a wooden pallet by guards, hand dangling listlessly off the edge and for a brief second Yifan's breath catches in his throat, fearing the worst. But then the scribe raises his hand slightly, waving to one of the other scribes-Can Lie- and an overwhelming sense of relief washes over him. He turns to Yixing. “Have the maids prepare a room for Scribe Huang in the Imperial house.”  
He sees the surprise flicker over Yixing's features, the objection on the tip of his tongue but cuts him off before he can speak it. “He saved my life, Yixing, he has earned the best treatment I can provide him.” Yixing purses his lips, probably annoyed by the lack of propriety and bending of hierarchy but acquiesces nonetheless.  
Commander Chen and Jun Mian go to see scribe Huang first, barring Yifan from entering as they interview him about the details of that night. Yifan paces the hallways impatiently before the door opens and the two men exit, scribe Huang's testimony recorded in a scroll by Can Lie. Jun Mian smirks at his brother's impatience, gesturing with his head. “You may see him.”  
“The First Prince is too kind.” Yifan snips before pushing past them, into the room.  
Scribe Huang's head swivels at the sound and Yifan is struck by how sickly he still looks. The deadlike pallor of his skin is offset by the smile he gives as he struggles to sit up before the nurses force him to lie back down, ignoring his protests. Yifan waits till they leave the room, before approaching him.

“Second Prince.” Zitao rasps out, voice hoarse. “Forgive my inability to greet you properly, I mean no disrespect.”  
“How can I take offense at the actions of a subject who is bedridden for my sake?”

 

 

Yifan seats himself on the carved chair besides the bed. “How are you faring?”  
Zitao grimaces slightly as he tries to readjust his position. “Far worse than I did after three days of riding, my prince.”  
Yifan laughs, amazed that the boy still has a sense of humor despite his condition. Zitao seems pleased at his reaction, reaching down to adjust his blankets and Yifan sees a flash of tan skin, white bandages stark against his complexion. He sobers up immediately, remembering the reason he came here. “There are no words I have to express how thankful I am for what you have done for me.” he begins, fighting to not lower his head in the face of Zitao's stare. “Without you, I would have been dead and the assassin would have slipped away without notice.”  
“I only did what a loyal subject would do, my prince.” Zitao's gaze is intense but the curves of smile are soft. “And you saved my life as well.”  
Yifan can still remember reaching for his sword and lunging for the assassin, filled with the single minded determination to rescue Zitao, the younger squirming the other man's grip. “It does not absolve me of the debt I owe you.” He raises a hand, cutting off Zitao's protests. “You have proved your loyalty and your worth to me and you shall be rewarded for that. You will be promoted to a senior scribe. And I will grant you one request.”  
He expects Zitao to mull it over, ask for wealth, land, a woman. But the scribe barely hesitates before replying. “I wish to see my mother, your highness.”  
Yifan conceals his surprise, nodding briskly instead. “I shall have an escort sent for Lady Haung by morning.” He stands then, remembering that Yixing has scheduled a session with one of the advisors. “Rest well, scribe Huang.”  
“Wait!” Yifan pauses, startled both by the tone and the informal address. Zitao seems to realise his mistake, bowing his head as he props himself up on one elbow. “Before you leave my prince, I have another favour to ask.”  
Yifan hungirly drinks in the sight of sharp exposed collarbones, the blanket having fallen into Zitao's lap. “Yes?”  
Zitao gestures to the jug on the side table. “I would like a drink. If your lord would be so kind as to trouble yourself.” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze lowered and coy yet Yifan has the feeling he's being seduced. He should refuse, this is improper and Zitao is treading a fine line, life debt or not. Yifan can leave, send the nurse in to serve Zitao yet he finds himself moving to the table, hands trembling as he pours the medicinal wine into the goblet, Zitao's eyes on him all the while. He kneels besides Zitao's chest, hand outstretched and Zitao tips his head back as Yifan presses the lip of the cup against his lips, muscles of his throat working as he swallows and Yifan feels his cock twitch under his robes. It's unbelievably erotic the way Zitao stares at him, eyes dark as a stray red droplet makes it's way down his chest and Yifan feels like a clumsy youth of fifteen, stuttering at every flirtatious smile and flash of skin sent his way. He pulls away, almost sloshing the wine on the blankets as he stands, bidding a hasty farewell as he leaves.  
He knows that the husky tone of Zitao's voice as he'd licked his lips, murmured “Thank you, my prince.” will be haunting his dreams for quite some time to come.

  
***  


One of the central points of Zitao’s training in martial arts was meditation. Everyday, he would rise at dawn with the other children and they would walk to the training fields, still bleary eyed despite the splashing of cold water as they’d washed up. There they would go through various forms and stretches, chanting alongside the master before meditating. For Zitao, young and restless, meditation served as a calming mechanism, one that helped him control his excessive energy. It comes as easily as breathing to him now.  
However, after nearly two weeks of bed rest, he’s beginning to get antsy, the familiar itch under his skin from not being able to move. He is cleaned daily by his nurses and has his bandages replaced and they stretch out his limbs, shifting him around slowly to prevent bed sores. For the most part he is left to his own devices and he passes the hours in a state of mind numbing boredom, occasionally convincing one of the nurses to play a round of cards with him.  
The Second Prince has been busy with his royal duties but makes time to visit him daily and these visits soon become the highlight of Zitao's day. They rarely traverse beyond small talk, hyper-aware of the sharp ears of the servants and the Prince seems intent on maintaining propriety in their interactions. Zitao is partially relieved, he'd feared that he'd crossed a line in their last meeting, but the sudden awkwardness is stifling, almost more so than the hours of silence.  
Today Zitao has managed to convince Prince Yifan to share some of the courtly gossip with him, needling him about the latest rumors he hears the nurses whisper about as they huddle together. The Prince seems hesitant to engage but Zitao manages to worm a few details about Lady Cai's newest lover out of him. He's laughing at the Prince's recounting of a drunken concubine belching straight into the finance minister's face when there is a loud knocking on the door. The Prince starts but Zitao just waves it off. “It is midday, the nurses have brought food.”  
Except instead of the nurses, the tray is borne by Xiulan, pale blue of her robes cascading behind her as she enters, bowing her head in the Prince's direction. He stands immediately, moving to take the heavy tray from her, placing it on the low carved table. Xiulan watches him, small smile on her face. “My Lord.”  
“Xiulan.” The Prince looks entranced as he reaches forward to cup her cheek, seemingly oblivious to Zitao's presence and it makes jealousy stir in his gut, ugly and hot. Xiulan addresses the Prince, tone warm but Zitao can see the tension in her posture. “It has been three weeks since My Lord returned from his travels yet I was not sent for. I feared you'd found a prettier face from Wei to occupy your time.”  
Prince Yifan shakes his head, taking her hand in his much larger one. “Don't speak of foolish things. I was busy with the increased workload and could not find the time to see you. For that I apologize.”  
From his vantage point on the floor, Zitao can barely make out their faces but he still sees the tremble in Xiulan's shoulders, the soft sobs she chokes out. “I heard of the assassination attempt. For days I feared the worst.” she whispers. She places kisses on the knuckles of both his hands, head bowed. “I thank the gods you were not hurt.”  
Then she's pulling away and kneeling besides him. From this closer angle Zitao can make out the tears trailing down her cheeks, leaving smears of white powder in their wake. There is a loveliness to her that ignites a fiercely protective instinct within him, makes him want to reach up and wipe away her tears. Instead she leans down, cupping his face in her hands. “Thank you.” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She cradles him for a few moments, far longer than what is probably considered appropriate but The Prince says nothing, turning his head out of respect. Xiulan shifts slightly and Zitao lets out a soft “oh” as he sees the way the fabric of her skirt tightens around her stomach, highlights the slight swell. She meets his eyes and gives him a secretive smile. Dimly he recalls their meeting in the harem, realizes now what her medicine had been for. There's a dull ache in his chest as he watches her rise, moving to stand beside the Prince. She looks like she belongs there. Zitao wets his lips before speaking. “If you forgive my impudence, my Lord, I am tired and wish to rest.” He gestures with his head towards Xiulan. “And I believe our guest has something she'd like to tell you.”  
Xiulan's eyes widen slightly but she composes her features quickly when Yifan turns to stare at her, bowing her head and murmuring that she will meet him in his chambers. The Prince makes to follow before hesitating, turning back to Zitao. “I received word from Lord Bai that he shall personally be escorting your mother on her travel. They are expected here in a week's time.” He smiles down at Zitao. “Hurry up and heal for your mother, Scribe Huang. It won't do good for her to worry when she sees you.”

“She is likely to do that anyways, Your Highness.” Zitao pastes on a smile waiting until the door has shut behind the Second Prince before he lets the dread set in. There is no good reason for Lord Bai to accompany his mother to the Capital and Zitao has a sickening feeling that it is to do with his lack of progress regarding the royals. He calls for his nurse until she comes flitting in, annoyed at the commotion. “Yes, scribe Huang?”

“My chest hurts, give me more of the sleeping draught.” he orders and the nurse complies quickly, eager to get back to her flirtation with the guard outside the door. The drug takes effect quickly and Zitao embraces the welcome heaviness on his lids as he shuts the world and all it's uncertainties out.

  
***  


The news that he is soon to be a father takes Yifan off guard completely. He had stood in disbelief when Xiulan had relayed the news to him, had to reach forward and feel for himself the rounded curve of her stomach and even then he was still unsure. Xiulan had seemed nervous at his reaction and he'd rushed to assure her that he was not angry merely...surprised.

Realistically speaking, it is not unusual for there to be Royal bastards. Yifan has his fair share of half siblings and even two nephews courtesy of Jun Mian. Yet the prospect of a child, his own flesh and blood, maybe with with Xiulan's eyes and his complexion leaves him filled with a strange mixture of trepidation and longing. He holds her to his chest as she informs him that the surgeon has estimated that the child would be born in five moons time, near the harvest season. Realistically they have time but Yifan immediately sends Yixing to find a nursemaid to attend to Xiulan throughout her pregnancy and make arrangements for her rooms, ignoring her exasperated protests all the while. It’s his first child that’s being born and he’ll be damned if he lets harem politics get in the way of providing Xiulan the best care that he can.

He isn’t given much time to dwell on the matter. The city is hit by a sudden epidemic of smallpox, spread in part by an infected merchant who had travelled to the city bazaar from the countryside. The disease spreads quickly and within the week Jun Mian orders for the gates of the palace to be sealed, all staff inspected and those who aroused suspicion immediately dismissed. They think they’ve avoided the worst of it until one of the cooks is found dead and covered in scabs. The disease crops up among the staff and trying to control it takes up precious time.  
A bigger worry for Yifan is how to keep the disease from spreading amongst the troops, a very valid concern when you have so many men living together in cramped quarters. He orders for the daily scouring of tents and armor, bans the men from going off base to their families and increases their food supply. Two weeks pass without incident and he dares to hope that they have headed the disease off successfully.

Then a string of cases erupt, from three different regiments as men start coughing and scratching at red, pockmarked skin almost overnight. Yifan orders for them to be killed, their belonging burnt but the damage is done. Within a week, 13 more cases have been reported to him.

He paces the length of Jun Mian’s room, hair in disarray as he thinks aloud. “All of the men had been following the regulations, none had been off base according to the generals. If the disease is spreading from within the camp then the gods help us, we will have no men left by the fortnight’s end.”  
Jun Mian looks bored as he watches his brother’s pacing. “Yifan, you are over reacting. We have taken additional measures, there are only a few regiments infected. In likelihood, it will ease within a few days.”

“But what if it doesn’t? We have Wei lurking our borders with a full force, the last thing we need is a weakened force.”

Jun Mian sighs, standing and placing a hand on Yifan’s shoulder. “Brother, I understand the assassination attempt has made you leery but you must reign in this paranoia before it send the palace into a panic. We will not be attacked by Wei, our treaty still stands and our forces are still strong.” He adjusts his overcoat, before beckoning to the guard standing off to the side of the room. “Now if you shall excuse me.”

Yifan bites down the retort on his tongue about how Jun Mian should get his head out of his latest girl’s skirt and into affairs of state and stomps from the room, his own servants bustling behind. He takes a detour, veering from the corridor leading to his chambers and heading left instead. He dismisses his servants as he stops outside Scribe Huang’s door.

Inside he finds the young man pacing the room slowly, holding onto a cane for help as he walks the perimeter. Zitao looks up when he hears him, pausing in his tracks. “My Lord” he fumbles into a clumsy bow and Yifan steps forward to steady him, holding on for longer than is probably necessary as he lets the man adjust his posture. They make their way to the cushions and Zitao slowly lowers himself into a sitting position, placing the cane carefully beside him. Yifan gestures to it. “You’ve made progress.”

Zitao smiles. “The surgeon gave me permission to begin light exercise again which is a relief, I was half convinced my limbs had grown into the bedpost.” He frowns slightly. “Although I’m still restricted to this room.”

Yifan sighs, pulling his knees up, uncaring of the wrinkles it will undoubtedly leave on his shirt. “That damned epidemic.”

“Has it gotten much worse? The maids used to bring me news but-” Zitao hesitates, lowering his voice. “Two of them haven’t been back for a few days and the new one won’t tell me why.”

They both know the reason. “It’s getting worse. The cases are spreading throughout the city even with the quarantines and the curfews and now the army is reporting cases too.” Yifan laughs mirthlessly. “Three wars during my father’s reign and it is a disease that could be our undoing.”  
“You should not say such things, my Lord.” Zitao’s tone is gentle even as he chides him. “After all, there is no guarantee that Wei has not had an outbreak too.”

The thought perks Yifan up as he straightens. “Would you think so? It is possible given the merchant routes across the border.” He can’t keep the malice out of his voice at the thought. “I hope so.”

Zitao doesn't respond and it takes Yifan a second to note that the younger man’s mouth has tightened at the corners. “I… am greatly worried for the safety of my mother and my acquaintances at Lord Bai’s residence.” he says quietly, grip white-knuckled on the wooden handle of his cane. “Even more so given their proximity to the Wei border.”

Yifan wants to slap himself for his callousness. “I’m sorry, forgive my choice of words.” Zitao looks panicked at the apology and Yifan waves off his protests. “Your mother was unable to arrive because of the quarantine and it was tactless of me to speak like this when you are undoubtedly worried for her.”

Zitao sighs, shoulders slumping as he fiddles with the tie of his belt. “It is not proper for a grown man to concern himself so much with his mother’s affairs but I can’t help it. She is the only family I have.”

There is silence after that before he speaks again. “Tell me my Lord, you must have been informed by now as to the past relations between our two houses.”

Yifan swallows, giving a barely perceptible nod. “I am, Zifan.”

Zitao blanches at the mention of his former name and Yifan feels almost apologetic. “Please, my Lord, do not refer to me with that title.”

“Why?” Yifan stares at him, daring Zitao to break his gaze. “It is the name your father gave you, is it not?”

Zitao stares back, unflinching. “That name died along with him, my Lord.”

They both jump when the door slams open, the guard bowing apologetically. “Forgive the interruption, my Lord, but the a new letter has arrived from the Generals and it is of utmost importance.”

Yifan nods, standing and heading for the chamber entrance. He pauses at the doorway, turning back to face Zitao. The scribe ahs his head turned to the side, expression contemplative as he stares out the window and Yifan suddenly feels a rush of empathy. In that moment, Zitao looks so vulnerable and just like before, on the horse after the near fall, on the floor of the bedchamber as the surgeon worked, Yifan feels the overwhelming surge of protectiveness, wants to to shield Zitao from all the bad the world has in it. And yet he knows, as he observes the younger, that Zitao has already experienced too much of it.

  
***  


Zitao still has nightmares about the execution.

They had come for his father early in the morning, the clanking of swords against armour loud as they marched through the doors of the Huang residence to seize Lord Huang from his office, dragging him by the arms outside. He remembers his mother screaming and running after them, desperate cries of her husband’s name, all her normal composure gone. They had been taken in a different carriage to the palace, a young Zifan peeking out from behind his nursemaids skirt as they were led to the main chamber. He had listened, confused as his father kneeled stoney faced in front of the Emperor, his mother weeping softly off to the side as a man with a loud voice recited a long string of complicated words. He couldn’t understand, what was going on, why father was sitting on the ground, why the Emperor looked so scary up on his throne. Father and the Emperor were friends, why was he not saying anything as his guards came and carried him away. Zifan’s mother had fallen in front of the Emperor, begged for mercy for her child and herself as a crying Zifan was made to prostrate himself beside her. The Emperor had looked upon them with indifference before turning away and striding from the room.

They had not been executed alongside Zifan’s father but it was small relief. Stripped of their wealth and title, they were cast out into the streets of Suzhou, the once great Lady Huang and her fatherless offspring. His mother’s mouth had been set in a straight line as she spent the meager coin they had left on taking them to Suzhou’s red light district where a sympathetic brothel owner had offered her work as an entertainer.

Zifan spent three years running through the wooden corridors of the house, letting himself be spoiled and fattened by the women who worked there, running wild through the streets of the red light district as he played with the street children, ran small errands for the women of the house. His mother would always drag him back inside afterwards, gritting her teeth as she took in his disheveled appearance. “You are not like them” she would lecture, scrubbing at his skin with a washcloth till it was red and raw. “You are of noble birth, you must conduct yourself as befitting of your clan. This-” and she would gesture around them, to the peeling walls of the bathhouse. “is below you and it is only unfortunate circumstance that has brought you here. But you can not let yourself set down roots.”

Zifan nods obediently but secretly, he doesn’t see what’s so bad about their current life. He likes playing with the neighbourhood kids, free of stuffy robes and countless lessons with private tutors. The pretty ladies are kind to him and the owner always ruffles his hair and gives him candy. He’s too young to see the way the other women laugh behind their silk sleeves at them, their painted mouths twisted in jeers at Lady Huang and her baseless pride. He doesn’t notice the dark rings that start forming under her eyes, black hair now shot through with silver, barely notices the limp in her step and crack in her voice after a long night of singing and dancing for yet another group of drunk nobles. Some nights however, he can’t block out the sound of his mother’s quiet sobs and he lies on the opposite end of the pallet, unsure of what to do, how to comfort her. He’ll try his hardest for a few days after, practice speaking in the courtly dialect that he is fast losing, skip the street games and stay in to practice his letters. It never quite diminishes the wrinkles in her brow but his mother still rewards him with a smile.

Then one day she comes outside the brothel to call for him voice ringing through the crowded streets. He approaches slowly, afraid that he will be scolded for his messy hair and the new grass stains on his pants but instead he is pulled into a hug. His mother bathes him as she tells him that he needs to pack his few belonging and be ready to leave to leave by dawn light. He barely gets a chance to say goodbye to his friends or the pretty ladies before leave.

Lord Bai looks like the villain in the children’s storybooks Zifan likes, the kind that steals maidens away in the dead of night. His mother slaps him when he regales these thoughts to her, hisses to them that he is _never_ to say such a thing about Lord Bai. “That man is our savior.” she tells him, combing his hair back tight enough that his scalp stings. “He will help you gain status in society Zifan, something that we will desperately need if we ever wish to see out name elevated again.”

So Zifan endures. He endures the long hours of lessons, the heavy clothes and the lashings when he makes mistakes. He endures the years of back breaking training at the temples, sleeping in a crowded room with 30 other children. He even kneels, blank faced and obedient as Lord Bai bestows upon him a new name. Zifan is left behind in the streets of Suzhou and Zitao takes his place, inheriting his mother’s bitterness and the burden of his family’s honour. He trains with a single-minded focus, imagining each blow landing on the Emperor as his mother watches from the sides, face blank but eyes belittling a spark he’d thought had been snuffed out years ago. Lord Bai is the puppeteer, skillfully weaving his web amongst the royals of Wu while consorting with the monarch of Wei. Zitao is his prize possession, the tool with which to achieve all his plans and he lets himself be manipulated willingly. Zitao had itched for a chance to get to Suzhous, to fulfill the purpose he had been trained his entire life for.

Things are different now, he muses as he slowly limps through the corridors, having managed to cajole the doctors into letting him exercise outside his room. Zitao still loathes the Emperor, there is no doubt about that but the idea of eventually having to kill Prince Yifan makes his stomach churn. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s gotten closer to the Prince then he’s ever anticipated, owes him his life even. And Zitao can’t keep finding convenient excuses for why his favorite time of the day is when the Prince comes to visit him in his rooms, the way his heartbeat picks up every time the Prince’s leg shifts against his as they converse, the way the world seems to slow down momentarily when he smiles and throws his head back in laughter. Zitao is treading a dangerous precipice and he knows he should withdraw, remind himself of his mission, his duty. But like a moth to flame he is drawn to the Prince and powerless to fight against his growing affections.

Today Prince Yifan has invited him to take a walk in the private gardens, giving him an opportunity to get out of the stuffy rooms of the palace and he welcomes the prospect. Prince Yifan appears to be in a better mood as he walks alongside him, slowing his pace to match Zitao’s as he hobbles along the well maintained lawns. The air is fragrant with the scent of jasmine, almost dizzyingly so or maybe that has something to do with Prince Yifan touching his arm as he points out various plants or the newly hatched batch of koi in the pond. The pace is comfortable and Zitao feels more at ease then he has in months, being surrounded by nature and in good company. Prince Yifan eventually leads them over to a gazebo, giving Zitao an opportunity to rest. The ache in his muscles is ever-present, unused to so much strain after being unused for so long but he welcomes it. The coolness of the bench seeps through his robes, making goosebumps break long his skin and he curls his arms around himself. From this vantage point the whole of garden is visible, a sea of emerald green lawns, dotted here and there with neatly maintained patch of red peonies, gold marigolds and the ever-fragrant jasmine bushes. The pools are calm at this time of day, a few women from the harem milling near one another with their children, teaching them to play with their wooden boats. Zitao watches the, a fond smile on his face. "I remember asking my mother for one of those when I was younger. She commissioned an elaborate piece from the court craftsmen, it even had little paper sails and beautiful carvings along the sides. I smashed it into three pieces the first time I ever took it out." Zitao snorts. "I still remember the yelling."

"I had those but I used to just give them to Se Xian-my younger brother, the sixth prince- to play with. I preferred _jianzi_." The Prince mimes kicking, his robes making a strange flapping sound at the gesture and they both laugh. The Prince hesitates before touching his arm gently. "Zitao, the last time we met I pried about your father. That was wrong of me-" Zitao opens his mouth to protest but the Prince waves him off. "But know it came from a place of curiosity, not malice."

"Your father and mine were the closest of friends, the Emperor called him his brother. I was nine when he was executed and no one ever told me of the true reason. I knew there was a plot but our father wouldn't even let his name be spoken in the court, let alone answer questions. So now I'm asking you." Yifan turns his gaze upon Zitao. "What is the true story?"

Zitao worries at his lip, trying to formulate a correct answer. He knows all versions of the story, the one whispered amongst the courtiers of Lord Huang's great betrayal and the one his mother had relayed to him, of his father choosing to support the Emperor of Wei in his claim to the throne as he believed him to be the true heir of Wu. He settles for a mixture of the two. "I don't remember much of it myself, being only six at the time. My mother never spoke of it but Lord Bai said it was because my father conspired with three other courtiers to have the Emperor assassinated and Prince Bao Xian declared the new heir. They were found out." Zitao shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "You are aware of what happened next."

"What of the other three courtiers?"

"Stripped and beaten in public before being blinded. All their lands and titles seized and thrown in the streets like beggars." Zitao tamps down the sudden surge of bitterness. "My father was the only one executed. They say the Emperor took his betrayal the hardest which is why he was not spared."

There's silence between them, the quiet murmurs of the guards below the steps and the chirping of a bird the only sound. Zitao almost thinks he has said too much, has managed to insult the emperor somehow and gears himself to apologize when Yifan speaks again, almost to quiet to be heard. "Do you resent my father, Zitao?"

He fumbles for an answer, unsure. "My Prince..."  
Yifan shakes his head still staring away from Zitao. "You can be honest, Scribe Huang."  
Zitao bites down on his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. "He is the reason I grew up without a father, without the security land and status brings. It....it is hard to forget that."

The Prince nods, accepting his explanation. "Do you resent me?"

That catches him off guard. "My Prince, why are you asking such questions?" He protests, ignoring the sickening lurch in his stomach at the Second prince's stony expression. The other doesn't speak and Zitao fists the fabric of his pants as he speaks. "You have given me no cause to resent you, my prince."

"I am the son of the man who killed your father." Yifan's tone is flat. "Is that not cause enough?"

Zitao does something foolish: he reaches for the Prince's hand, yanking it to his chest and successfully drawing the other’s attention to himself. "You are no more responsible for your father's actions then I am for mine." He brings Yifan’s hand to his forehead, pressing it against the knuckles. "Have I not given you enough reason by now to see that?"

"You have." Yifan's tone is husky as he cups his chin and draws his gaze back up. "I consider you a loyal subject. A-" he swallows, Zitao following the movement of his throat, possessed by the sudden urge to tuck his head there. "friend."

"You honor me too much my Prince." Zitao presses a kiss to his hand in reverence, afraid momentarily that Yifan will be able to hear the thudding of his heart from inside his chest. The Prince shakes his head. "Scribe Huang, you are my friend. Please, call me by my given name."

 _Yifan_. Zitao has breathed that name out before, in his dreams, in choked gasps during late nights with his hand around his cock. Yifan, Yifan, Yifan. Saying it out loud seems thrillingly illicit. He bows his head again, eyelashes fanning out across his cheekbones and he knows how this angle makes him look, demure and soft. "Yifan" he breathes out, pressing a kiss to his hand again, only this time it's deliberately slow, a teasing drag of skin against skin. He feels the Prince's pulse speed up from where Zitao’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist, almost misses the slight hitch of breath as Zitao looks up to meet his gaze, smiles slowly. Something heavy hangs between them, thick and stifling and Zitao knows what would break it. It would be so easy to lean forward, cup the Prince's face nd press their lips together. But even he is not bold enough for that.  
The moment is broken when one of the guards approaches the gazebo entrance, bowing before informing the Prince- _Yifan_ \- that the health minister has requested his presence to discuss the latest updates in containing the crisis. They dust themselves off before rising, Zitao's leg having gone numb and he stumbles, pinpricks shooting up his side. Then a large hand is cupping his waist and steadying him as they walk the path back to the palace. Yifan's hand is a solid comfort against his side and in the spirit of recklessness, Zitao does not pull away.

  
***  


Some much needed good news is delivered to Yifan after weeks of nothing but stress. The variolation technique the doctors had started in a desperate attempt to combat the epidemic has yielded results. Jun Mian had also enacted a no-mercy approach to combat the spread, having all bodies and possessions of victims burnt. Most importantly they had solved why so many of the soldiers kept getting infected despite precautions, the reason being the brothel located just a mile south of the camp. When the brothel owner pleads for mercy, the council decides that rather than beheading him, they’ll use this to their advantage. The sick women are smuggled to the Wei army barracks and within days their spies report the first outbreak amongst their men.

The news pleases Yifan in it’s own sadistic way but he refrains from mentioning it, particularly around Zitao. The scribe’s condition improves daily and soon he has progressed from walking to being able to practice stretches and light exercise. Yixing frowns when he sees Zitao practicing in the gardens, muttering under his breath about impropriety and the shamelessness of this boy yet Yifan waves away his grumblings. Zitao makes for a very pleasant distraction when Yifan needs to unwind from meeting or Jun Mian’s general incompetence.

Something potent is simmering between the two of them, has been for a while now but the conversation in the gazebo has made the tension even more palpable. His mind is constantly swarmed with thoughts of the other man and for the first time ever he finds himself slacking in his work, making excuses to steal away to meet Zitao in the gardens.

Today however he’s en route to Xiulan’s chambers, having had her placed in isolation when the epidemic began and after weeks of separation, he looks forward to seeing her again. He’d arranged special chambers for her outside the harem, incurring Song Qian’s wrath as she protested that not even the King’s mistresses were afforded such privilege. Luckily for Yifan, Jun Mian had intervened, his obvious dislike for the head concubine working in Yifan’s favour. Yifan hopes that some time away from the toxicity of the harem has done Xiulan well. 

She’s sprawled on the bed when he enters the room, pillows propping up her lower back. She nearly falls out of the bed when she sees him, scrambling to fix her robes. He laughs at her flustered state, striding over to help right her skirts. “Take care not to choke yourself, Xiulan.”  
She scowls at him but there is mirth in her eyes as she swats at his arm. “It’s your fault my lord, have you not learnt by now to not sneak up on a lady.” She fixes her hair, gesturing for him to sit. He pulls her into his lap before she can move to serve him drinks, hand finding his way to the rounded curve of her stomach, now more prominent. “You’re getting so big.”

She glares at him for real this time, trying to pull away. “That tends to happen when a woman is with child, my lord.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” he soothes, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re beautiful like this.” And it’s true. She looks softer than the last time he’d seen her, the lines around her eyes less prominent, skin glowing. Yifan had heard some talk of how women became prettier when fecund but this is the first time he’s seen it. Xiulan lets him play with her hair, idly toying with his hands. “I’ve heard you’ve been busy, my Prince.”

“Has Lord Yixing been tattling to you about how insufferable I am?” Yifan teases, well aware of Yixing’s friendship with the concubine, something that would normally be frowned upon but Yifan rather likes that his two best friends get along so well. XiulanYixin doesn’t confirm or deny, wriggling free from his hold to go get him a drink. “He told me of your new friendship with Scribe Huang.” She passes him the cup, gaze inquisitive. “Seemed rather put out by it, actually.”

“Ah that.” Yifan fidgets with the cup, trying not to meet her eyes. Xiulan knows him too well, will be able to identify the feelings Yifan’s been trying so hard to compress. “We became closer recently. He’s a fascinating person to talk to.”

“Luhua told me she sees you in the garden with him quite often.” Xiulan props her chin up on her hand. “The servants think there is rather something more going on between you two.”

“Such as?” His tone is sharp, defensive and Xiulan notices, dropping her gaze to the floor. He tries to relax, bringing his voice down to a more measured tone. “What do they suspect?”

Xiulan is quiet, no doubt choosing her words carefully. “My Prince, you are known for being reticent. You only ever confide in me or Lord Yixing and you purposefully avoid socializing with others beyond what decorum requires of you. For you to befriend someone so quickly, and especially a lower-class scribe...and one with his parentage.” Xiulan trails off, inspecting her hands. “Curiosity is to be expected.”

He’s saved from answering when the door is opened and the nursemaid-Luhua, his mind supplies- bustles in, a stack of fresh linens in her arms. “Xiulan, you should get ready, your bath has been prepared.” She stops in her tracks when she sees him, dropping her cargo. “My prince!” she squeaks out, dropping into a bow, messing up the sheets further. Flustered she scuttles about to collect them. “Um, I am here to collect Lady Xiulan.”

“She will be there shortly.” He watches as Luhua peeks up at Xiulan, waiting for a nod before leaving the room, crumpled sheets trailing in her wake. He turns to Xiulan, one eyebrow arched. “On a first name basis with your nursemaid?”

Xiulan dithers before composing herself, shrugging. “Do you refer to your lovers with their formal titles, my Lord?”

It takes a second for him to understand and Xiulan bursts into laughter when he finally does. “You and her?” He really shouldn’t be too surprised, Xiulan had told him of the affairs that occurred between women of the harem, herself included but he’d never known her to like someone enough to let them drop her title. Xiulan holds out her arm to him and he escorts her out. Luhua is waiting in the wings and this time Yifan catches the look of jealousy that flits over her features when she sees their linked hands. Xiulan does too, letting out an amused chuckle before letting go. “Yifan, listen to me.” she says, pitching her voice low. “Confess to your scribe.” She cuts off his protests, pressing a palm to over his mouth. “I have known you for years now Yifan, you’ve always been a terrible liar.” The corner of her mouth quirks up, her lovely half smile. “And Luhua told me that when she saw you two together that you were looking at him like how I look at her.”

  
***  


Zitao has slowly eased back into his scribe duties, though his new work consists more of drafting letters to generals instead of palace accounts, a step up in his opinion. He still hasn’t been told to clear out his room in the Imperial house, something that he can tell irritates Lord Yixing immensely but Zitao is not going to do what’s proper and move out without being told. The luxury of his own room and servants makes the prospect to returning to a crowded room with twenty other men infinitely less appealing.

It’s easier for him to meet Yifan this way too, away from prying eyes and the ever-eavesdropping servants. They can sit together for hours on end, the sunlight being replaced with the dimmer, more intimate glow of the oil lamps. The privacy makes him bolder as he presses into Yifan’s side, fingers loosely wrapped around his wrist, eyes fixed on his face as he listens. Sometimes Yifan will trail off mid sentence, returning his gaze with the same dark want in his eyes and time will stop for Zitao as he waits, pleads internally for Yifan to make the move. He never does and eventually Zitao will break the staredown, squeeze Yifan’s hand and encourage him to continue. They’ll stay like that till the late hours of the night until Yixing arrives to summon the Prince away, disapproval evident. Yesterday Zitao had been bolder, had pressed a kiss to Yifan’s cheek in front of the advisor, taking joy in the flush that travelled from his cheeks to his neck and Yixing’s furious glare.

Today, he’s sitting across from Prince Junmian’s personal secretary, Kyuxian and helping the elder sort through the mass of letters that await his attention. Zitao mostly organizes everything into piles while listening to Kyuxian’s ever amusing commentary on the the senders. He snorts when he picks up a tan scroll with a messy red seal, tossing it over to Zitao. “Personal correspondence. You can spot Prince Sexian’s rolling skills a mile off.”

Zitao sorts it accordingly. “Where is Prince Sexian? I don’t think I’ve seen him at the palace.” He pauses in his sorting. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve seen any of the other princes besides the First Prince and the Second.”

“You don’t know the story?” Kyuxian looks delighted at the prospect of gossiping. “Haven’t you heard of the fight between the Empress and Song Qian?”

“No one had informed me.” Kyuxian beckons him closer, making shifty eyes at the sleeping guard by the door. “It isn’t spoken of much but it was a great scandal in the Huogong. The Emperor was even forced to intervene after the Empress attacked Lady Qian.” The guard in the corner shifts and both tense, making a show of resuming their work. “What happened?” Zitao mumbles as he flits through papers.

“Song Qian had been the Emperor’s favorite from his days as the Crown Prince and she made herself the head of the harem after his coronation. Everyone knew she thirsted for power and we all presumed she’d reached it. She gave birth to the King’s first son, Bao Xian and was plotting to have him declared heir. When the Emperor married she thought the new Empress wouldn’t challenge her. That was her first mistake.” Kyuxian clears his throat, calling to the guard. “Have the servants bring us some wine.”

“The Late Empress was a quiet woman and Song Qian made the mistake of confusing that with stupidity. It did not take the Empress long to see how the Emperor favored Lady Qian over her. But she wouldn’t let him favor Bao Xian. Princes Junmian and Yifan were both born within a year of each other and many thought they would be stronger contenders for the throne then the bastard prince. Song Qian may have had the Emperor’s ear but the Empress had the support of the council and the Empress Dowager. When Jun Mian was ten, the Emperor declared him First Prince. Lady Qian was furious. She then made her second mistake. She conspired with three treasonous lords-” Kyuxian breaks off, suddenly looking apologetic and Zitao’s mind fills in the blanks. “They wanted Baoxian made Emperor. Once he’d ascend they’d arrange a marriage between him and the Princess of Wei. It seemed perfect but they were caught. The Lords were executed but the Emperor could not bring himself to execute Song Qian. The foolish nature of love. The Empress demanded that if Song Qian would not be executed then Bao Xian should be in her stead. The Emperor agreed.”

“His own son.” Zitao had heard of the cutthroat nature of the court but to have it confirmed was even more startling. “What happened to Song Qian?”

“Exiled to serve as a lower noblewoman’s attendant in the country estates. The Emperor had her brought back when the Empress passed away. Oh, it was quite a scandal. Prince Jun Mian has always hated her for it, saw it as a personal affront to his mother. The one wish of the Late Empress that the Emperor did honour was that all the other princes be raised outside the Palace. Any bastard princes remain in the harem till the age of ten before being sent to different noble houses for further study. Prince Sexian choose to go the army instead.”

Zitao doesn’t get a chance to ask any further questions as a servant comes in, bearing a fully laden tray. “Scribe Huang, Lord Yixing is requesting your presence.”

Zitao cocks an eyebrow in surprise. “Did he give the reason?”

“No, sir, only said for you to make haste towards your bedchambers.”

“That’s odd.” Nevertheless he stands, waiting for Kyuxian’s dismissal before he leaves. He’s half expecting to find Lord Yixing in his room, flanked on either side by two guards, ready to order him to pack his things and move back to the scribe’s quarters. Instead he’s shocked to find his mother and Lord Bai seated at short tables, the latter immersed in conversation with Lord Yixing.

His mother immediately rises when she sees him, moving with a grace that belies her years of dance training. He slumps forward in her embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of jasmine that clings to her clothes. She’s so small, head only reaching the middle of his chest yet he feels protected in her hold, as if he is stripped of his training and rank and left a trembling boy in her arms. She pulls away to cup his face. “My son.” 

“Mother.” He bows low to her, wincing at the ache in his side, something that does not go unnoticed by her. He bows to Lord Bai as well. “My Lord, you honour me with your visit.”

“There is no need for such stiffness my boy.” Lord Bai squeezes his shoulder, fingers digging into bone. “Why, your lady mother was besides herself with worry when news of the attack reached us. I told her to take pride that she has raised a son who has defended his Prince so faithfully.” Lord Yixing nods his approval, beckoning for the guards to follow him. “I’ll leave you alone to catch up. Your belonging have been sent to your chambers, my Lord, the servants are waiting outside should you choose to retire. I’m sure the Princes are looking forward to dining with you tonight.” Lord Yixing bows once more before exiting, the thud of the wooden door loud in his wake.

Zitao is still holding his mother’s hands, inspecting her face, taking note of the newly formed gray hairs around her temple. “How have you been, Mother? How is everyone at the house?” He’s been separated from his friends for so long, talking about them now brings a distant ache in his chest. “Has Jian married? What about Ling? Has his cough improved?”

He doesn’t see the blow coming until it’s too late and he’s on his knees, gasping at the white-hot agony that travels up his leg. Lord Bai swings the cane again again, ivory cracking against bone and Zitao can’t hold back his yell this time. His mother moves in front of him, voice pleading. “My Lord, please.”

“Quiet!” He thunders, shoving her aside to stare down at Zitao, the angle making him look even more menacing. “You incompetent fool.” he hisses as Zitao struggles to his feet. “I have fed you, housed you, given you all the power my name can provide and this is how you repay me?”

“My Lord.” Zitao rasps out, still clutching his injured leg. “Please tell me what I have done to incur your displeasure. I have only ever sought to serve you faithfully.” He catches his mother's eyes, takes in the fearful set of her mouth. Lord Bai laughs, the sound making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “I sent you to Suzhou four moons ago to slay the royals and instead, what do I hear? You risking your own life to save them.” He spits the words with venom, grip tightening on his cane and Zitao tenses, ready to dodge another hit should it come. “Tell me Zitao, have your loyalties strayed? Have you forgotten your purpose?”

“Never, my Lord.” He keeps his head bowed as he speaks, flashbacks to childhood beatings for “impudence” flickering through his mind. “It would have given me no greater joy than to let one of the Wu progeny bleed away but if he did, the outcry would have been immediate. They would have rushed the First Prince’s coronation, even declared war on Wei. By saving his life, I bought us time.”

Lord Bai’s eyes narrow, contemplating. “I hear from my sources that you have been seen becoming close with the Second Wu. Tell me, is it true that it is he who is the mastermind behind the Kingdom’s decisions? All I hear of the First bastard is that he likes to stick his prick in anything with two legs and a willing smile.”

Zitao’s mouth is dry as he understands what Lord Bai is implying. If the Lord decides Yifan is a bigger threat, he will change his focus from Jun Mian to him. “Absolutely not.” His voice comes out stronger than he feels and he risks a quick glance up. “Prince Jun Mian is responsible for all of Wu’s military strategizing. The Second Prince is merely a mouthpiece for him. The goal is to make Prince Jun Mian appear less threatening. I have personally conversed with the Second Prince on many occasions and the man is a fool, hardly worthy to be a cobbler let alone a king.”

Lord Bai seems mollified, snorting in amusement. “The entire bloodline is comprised of simpletons. We shall be doing their small minds a favor by stripping them of their titles.” He strides to the other end of the room and Lady Huang’s follows immediately, going to pour him water. “Very well. But the sooner the three Wus are dead, the better. I have found quite a powerful ally to aid you, my boy. She should come contact you quite soon.”

Zitao’s mouth is dry as he bows again. “I look forward to meeting her, my Lord.”

Lord Bai stares at him over the rim of his cup. “I am giving you another chance and you had better redeem yourself. The Wu's fall is inevitable, with or without you. You have been given an opportunity to esteem yourself to the future rulers of Wu and squandering it will be your downfall.” He jerks Lady Huang forward roughly, almost tripping her. “I was the one who pulled your mother from the whorehouses of Suzhou. Never forget that I can put her back there again.”

Zitao finally raises his head, meeting his eyes. “I won’t.” He sees the fear in his mother’s eyes as she stares up at him from her kneeling position. The conviction in his voice fails to betray the sickening feeling of dread pooling in his stomach. “I won’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

Yifan still remembers his first sword lesson, back at the tender age of six.His father had knelt beside him, explaining his low voice the proper hand placements. Yifan had no natural inclination towards athletics but he worked hard, ever eager to impress his father and earn himself a smile, a brusque pat on the back.All through his childhood, Yifan viewed his father with a mixture of awe and fear.He was his idol, the one he had been taught to emulate, his bedtimes filled with his nursemaids stories of his father’s heroics in battle.It’s hard to reconcile those memories with the man in front of him now.

His father had been in one of his lucid phases earlier, an increasingly rare occurrence and had grilled Yifan on their military strategy.Mid sentence he had tapered off getting a confused look on his face and Yifan had sighed, gesturing for the attendants to come forward.The Emperor shies away, looking like a frightened child. “Qian!”

The head concubine is immediately at his side,murmuring soothing words and the Emperor turns to listen, the adoration in his eyes evident. Even during the worst of his fits, the Emperor never forgets Song Qian.It’s almost touching in a way, even if Jun Mian is glowering at Song Qian from across the room. A knocking on the door gets their attention, heads swiveling in that direction as a guard steps through to announce the visitor. “Scribe Huang requests a audience with the Second Prince.”

Yifan nods permission, slightly surprised.Zitao has been quiet for the past few days, alternating between being his regular clingy self and withdrawing from Yifan when he comes to visit him.He enters now, bowing first towards the Emperor and then Jun Mian.Yifan rises from his seat, moving closer to him. “What do you need?”

Zitao keeps his head low, voice soft. “There are some matters I wish to clarify regarding the new tax proclamation before I send it to the First Officer. Would his Highness be able to spare some time to look it over?”

“Of course.” Yifan turns to bow to his father. “Excuse me, Emperor.” He sees the smirk on Song Qian’s face as she stares at Zitao standing behind him, sees the dark look Zitao sends her in return.A sudden feeling of jealousy comes over him and he turns, abruptly striding from the room, Zitao scrambling to follow. Yifan only slows once they have rounded the corner, allowing Zitao to catch up. “What was it that confused you?”

Zitao tugs him into a small alcove, grip on his arm firm. Yifan watches in surprise as Zitao slumps against him,arms instinctively moving to wrap around his waist. “Zitao?”

“I sent the proclamation off yesterday.” Zitao says, voice muffled against Yifan’s chest. ‘I just needed an excuse to get you away”

Yifan can’t help but grin, looking down at Zitao. “And why was that?”

Zitao shrugs, tightening his hold on Yifan. “I just wanted to see you .” he says pulling away to peek up at Yifan. “Isn’t that a good enough reason?”

Yifan can’t formulate a reply to that. The admission shouldn’t make him feel elated, it’s hardly a confession of love but Yifan is so infatuated at this point that even this makes his heart race.He tightens his hold around Zitao’s middle in lieu of a reply. “You can interrupt me anytime.” he says after a beat. “Except maybe in the bath.”

Zitao laughs, pulling away to flick him on the nose. “That’s a dangerous statement, My Lord.What if I come into your bedchamber and wake you up before dawn? Would you still be fine with it?”

Yifa swallows, trying to tamp down the flare of heat at the innuendo in Zitao’s words. ‘I don’t think anyone would object to you crawling into their bed, no matter the time.”

Zitao’s mouth parts in a soft gasp, cheeks reddening.Yifan sees something uncertain in his eyes before it’s replaced with resolve.Then Zitaos tugging him closer, bringing one hand up to his face and tugging him forward to press their lips together.

And they’ve been building up to this for so long, perhaps since that first meeting when Yifan had been so struck by the new boy’s eyes, but it still catches him off guard. Zitao takes control, angles his head to press closer and Yifan submits easily.It’s better than he could have ever imagined, the softness of Zitao’s lips against his, hair tickling Yifan's cheek and hands warm against the base of his spine.He's bolder than Yifan had thought, nipping at his bottom lip and urging him to open up. They both start when a crashing noise is heard down the corridor, pulling away to stare at each other wide-eyed. A guard stumbles past, his helmet askew as he rubs at his head, seemingly oblivious to the two terrified figures still huddled in the alcove. They both let out a nervous breath once he's passed by and Zitao breaks the silence with a surprisingly high pitched giggle.It breaks the tension, Zitao's mortified expression pulling a laugh from Yifan. "You're cute."

"There's nothing flattering about referring to a grown man as cute." Zitao snips although he's fighting back a smile too.He reaches to fix Yifan's hair, tucking some loose strands back into place. "You should go back, they'll be wondering where you've gone."

 

Yifan knows that Zitao is right but now that he's _finally_ gotten a taste of his lips, he can't seem to think of anything more worthwhile than spending the next hour or six familiarizing himself with them.Zitao seems to follow his train of thought, smirking as he pushes Yifan away lightly. "You have your duties, my Lord."  
You're worth forgetting them for." Zitao laughs at that ducking under Yifan's arm and moving to stand a few feet away. "Go, Yifan. We can meet tonight as usual." There's promise in his tone and Yifan knows, as he watches Zitao walk down the corridor, that he's not going to be able to focus on his work at all today.

Xiulan picks up on it right away when he goes to see her, nagging him until he gives in and tells her what happened.She teases him accordingly but seems pleased as she tucks her head into his side. “It’s nice seeing you happy.” she tells him, fingers absent-mindedly drumming on her ever growing stomach. “He makes you less of a worrywart, I appreciate that.” She pokes him in the side, grin suddenly turning mischievous. “So how far did you and Scribe Huang explore? Did you manage to get under his robes?”

“Xiulan!” He pushes her away, feeling his cheeks redden. “You shouldn’t say such things,it isn’t at all becoming of a lady.”

She snorts loudly, calmly resituating herself on the bed, head in his lap. “You’ve heard me say worse before, my Lord.And from what I remember, you enjoyed it” .Her lascivious smile is accompanied by an eyebrow waggle and Yifan stares down at her in disbelief, trying to figure out what pregnancy has done to his lovely courtesan. Xiulan taps him on the forehead. “I’m joking but you should try and figure out the specifics my Lord. Two men coupling is far different from a man and a woman.”

Yifan insists that he has no such intention and threatens to have the guards confiscate all of Xiulan’s novels, given the kind of dirty thoughts they’re putting in her head.Secretly he’s trying to recall whether the Palace library has any scrolls on the matter.Yifan is pretty sure one or more of his ancestors had a few flings with the same sex.

Later that night, he goes to Zitao’s room as usual, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.Earlier they had been playful after their kiss but now he finds himself hesitant.What if Zitao rejects him, insists he had just done it as a joke?Or worse, what if Zitao doesn’t really want him but indulges him out of fear? Yifan doesn’t know which option is worse.

His worries are baseless. Zitao leads him straight to their favorite cushions, tugging Yifan down until he’s awkwardly perched on his lap, laughing when they nearly knock heads in the process. And when Yifan had fantasized about this (only occasionally, mind you) he had thought he would be the aggressor but instead it’s Zitao who takes the lead, eager and demanding in his kisses, hands tight around Yifan’s waist as the elder becomes pliant in his embrace.They stay like that for what feels like forever, until Yifan’s sure Zitao’s legs must be numb from supporting his weight and his own lips feel swollen.The sudden darkness that envelops the room startles both of them and Yifan realises that the oil lamp has gone out.They fumble around in the dark and Zitao manages to find him first, cupping his face and clumsily pressing a kiss to one cheek. “Good night, Yifan.”

His guard gives him a strange look when he emerges, probably noting his disheveled hair and flushed appearance but he’s a tactful man and says nothing, merely escorts Yifan back to his own room.

Yifan stays awake for a long time that night,his cheeks hurting from smiling so much.His last thought before he finally falls asleep near dawn, is that he should really heed Xiulan’s advice and do some research in the library.

  
***  


Zitao kneels stiffly on the carpeted harem floor, the lush carpet doing little to soothe the pain in his knees after the almost hour long time he’s spent in this position. The only sound in the room is the scrape of nails against wood, Song Qian running the file over each nail with precision, eyes never leaving his figure in front of her.Most women in the harem prefer to keep their nails short,with rounded edges and dyed white with a beeswax and egg white mixture.Qian however has hers sharpened to triangular points, painted a deep blood red that stands in contrast to the white of her skin.They remind Zitao of talons.

“So,” her voice startles him and he curses himself as she notes his reaction, smile growing wider. “How did tonight’s excursion end?”

Zitao swallows down his disgust at her callous language. “Everything went according to plan.” It had been too easy almost. The boy had barely struggled when he had found him, finishing up his work in his parent’s barley fields.The late evening providing a perfect cover for Zitao to catch him unawares and it had been a simple matter of knocking him unconscious with a quick blow to the back of the head.Another twist and then the boy breathed no more, looking oddly peaceful even as his neck lolled at an unnatural angle.In a few hours his family would find him splayed out at the bottom of the hill, cold and stiff and mourn a tragic accident.The boy’s only crime had been to be the result of a short lived affair between his mother and the Emperor, a liability to the Royals of Wei.And Zitao had been sent in to take care of matters.

“Good work.”Song Qian tosses the file away, tapping newly sharpened nails against the wooden handles of the chair. “So you have cleaned out the remaining bastards in Suzhou?”

The boy in the fields. The young stable hand who had put up the most fight.The ten year old, readily lured out with promises of candy.The starving twins in the slums, skin paper thin in his grip. Zitao remembers each of them. “Yes.”

“And the ones in the other cities are being taken care of too.Perfect.” Qian nods to him. “You may go. I will report your work to Lord Bai.He will be most pleased with your achievements.” Zitao feels repulsed but he bows accordingly.When he’d snuck out three weeks ago to the meeting point arranged for him and Lord Bai’s mysterious inside source, he could never have imagined that he’d be encountering the head concubine.In retrospect, it makes sense.Song Qian has power, influence, close access to the Emperor and most, importantly, she is a ruthless snake.Zitao has no doubt that Qian has the means to have him taken care of should she need it.

He’s making his way towards the door when Qian calls out to him again, voice deceptively soft. “Oh Zitao.Do be so kind as to bring me the box from behind the tapestry.”

Zitao is eager to return to his room, drink away the memories of tonight’s killing before they overwhelm him.Gritting his teeth, he follows orders, shifting the heavy wall hanging aside and tapping the secret panel. The box itself is small, only the size of his palm and beautifully inlaid with jade and mother of pearl. Song Qian caresses it lovingly as she flicks the lid open.Nestled inside is a small vial, the fluid inside a murky brown Qian holds it up to the light. “Do you know what this is, Zitao?”

The pungent smell when she uncorks it has him gagging, bringing his sleeve up to cover his mouth.Song Qian laughs, tipping some of the liquid into a pewter bowl. “Nightshade.A most difficult to obtain poison but luckily, I have friends in high places. It’s effects vary on the dosage.A little can incite fits so powerful that they make grown men weep.” She tugs at her hair, pulling an ornate comb from within the strands. The end she carefully dips into the bowl. “And just a little more can induce death.”

“The Emperor.” It’s a brilliant plan.No one would suspect anything amiss if the Emperor’s fits got worse, he’d been sick long enough that many of the surgeons see him as being on the cusp of death already.It would be so simple for Qian to administer the dose, after all the Emperor only ate from her hand.”And after he is dead?”

“Prince Jun Mian’s coronation. But that is a matter that still needs fine tuning.” Song Qian returns the comb to her hair, adjusting it till it looks as perfect as ever. “You just focus on your own tasks, dear Zitao.”

He should go, rid himself of her toxic presence that clings to his skin and makes him feel filthier by the second.But for some reason his mouth refuses to obey his brain. “He loves you.” he blurts out, watching her arch an eyebrow in displeasure at him speaking out of turn. “The Emperor.Can you live with your conscience if he dies by your hand?”

Something flickers in her expression, a split second moment of weakness before she throws her head back and laughs.The sound is piercingly loud in the silence of the room and it makes the hairs on his neck rise.Qian lowers her head to stare at him, mouth twisted into a grin and she looks like a woman possessed. Zitao takes a step back. 

“Love.” she hisses, courtly dialect being replaced with the guttural Wei accent, so like his own but with an added layer of venom. “Any love I had for that bastard died the day he let the executioner split my son’s head from his body.Any love I had died the day he let that _bitch_ send me away like some kind of servant.” She pauses for breath, eyes wild. “Will love protect me the day he passes and the crown prince does away with me?” 

Her sudden movement catches him off guard and he doesn’t get a chance to react before she’s across the room, holding his chin in a vice grip.He should move, push her off but he remains rooted to the spot, paralyzed under the intensity of her stare.She smiles then, the look almost maternal. ‘Let me give you some advice, my lovely Zitao.” she whispers,tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ears,nails of her other hand digging into his throat. “There is no such thing as love in this world.There is security,status,power.These will get you where you want to be.Love is a trick, there only to weaken us.You would do well to remember that.”

Later when Zitao has freed himself from her grip, groping his way down the dark corridors of the palace, his heart still pounding, he will wonder whether the knowing look in her eyes meant that he’d been discovered.But he pushes those thoughts aside, desperate to return to the security of his bedchambers.Back to Yifan.

  
***  


Yifan is starting to become more acquainted with Zitao’s bed than his own these days, the amount of time he’d been spending in it having increased exponentially these past few weeks.Zitao is busier, often returning long after the rest of the palace has finished dinner. Yifan worries that he’s being overworked, has offered to talk to the head scribe and have Zitao’s duties lessened but the other refuses.He comes back most nights tired, the bags under his eyes becoming increasingly prominent.On those days Yifan will help him undress, cradle him tenderly as they stretch out on his pallet, the space almost too small for two men their size.On those nights Zitao is pliant, content to be taken care of.

And then there are nights like these.Nights where Zitao’s eyes darken when he returns to see Yifan sprawled on his bed.Nights where he’ll stride across the room, grip his arms and kiss him breathless.He’s bolder on nights like these, his hands exploring and Yifan’s blood runs hot as he remembers their last encounter two nights ago. Zitao had been unusually desperate, barely giving Yifan time to react before he’d pushed him onto the bed, hands shifting to tug his trousers down. And Yifan is by no means a virgin but the sight of Zitao with his lips hollowed around his cock had him coming embarrassingly fast. He’d reciprocated with his hands fascinated by the weight and heft of another man’s cock in his palm but more so by the small moans Zitao lets out as he ruts into Yifan’s fist, throaty and low and so different from the noises a woman would make but no less arousing.

The same desperation is echoed tonight, Zitao barely giving him time to think as he draws him in for a searing kiss, hands already fumbling with the knot of his robes. “Want you.” he moans and Yifan goes willingly as Zitao guides him to the bed. They collapse on the mattress in a tangled heap, hands eagerly mapping out each other’s forms, tugging and in Zitao’s case, ripping at fabric fto get to skin. Yifan is transfixed when Zitao finally sheds his undershirt, the broad muscles of his back flexing as he throws it to the side. And Zitao is stunning, the olive of his skin that glows golden in the candlelight, the solid muscles of his biceps that shift and move as Yifan clutches at his arms, feeling dizzy as Zitao kisses his way down his chest. And Yifan has been neglecting his sword practice recently,muscles gone soft but it doesn’t seem deter Zitao in the slightest as he sucks bruises onto his stomach, mouth achingly close to where he wants him the most. Zitao is the most insufferable tease, scraping his teeth lightly over skin as he descends lower, hooking his fingers in Yifan’s trousers and pulling them off. He ignores his cock in favour of pressing kisses to Yifan’s thighs as the elder groans, twisting his hips to try and get closer to the warm heat of his mouth. _“Zitao.”_ he whines and he feels the vibrations of his laugh against his skin before Zitao takes him in again and starts sucking in earnest.There can't be anything more perfect than this Yifan thinks dazedly, one hand fisting itself in Zitao’s hair.

He think he’ll be coming embarrassingly fast again tonight but Zitao pulls away,a high pitched laugh escaping him at the displeased whine Yifan lets out. “Yifan” he whispers, voice almost too loud in the moment. “I want you.” Nails scrape across his chest as Zitao moves upwards, captures him in another kiss. “Want you so badly, please.”

It takes him a moment to grasp what Zitao is asking for. “I-I’ve never done this before.” he blurts out, dropping his gaze to Zitao’s lips, not quite willing to meet his eyes just yet. “With a man.”Zitao seems unsurprised, merely links their fingers together and presses a kiss to his knuckles. ‘I’ll take care of you. I’d never hurt you” Zitao tenses for a moment but then he’s dropping his head down again, mouthing hot and insistent against his collarbone. “Trust me.”

And Yifan is scared. Not of the sex, he’s desired Zitao long enough to know that any encounter would be pleasurable, but because he knows there’s no going back once they cross this line. Yifan has loved before but it has never been like this, this all consuming emotion that threatens to engulf him whole. And he’s helpless in the face of it, arms tight around Zitao’s neck as the other moves lower, hands drifting further before he stops. “We need oil.”

“On the dressing table. Third drawer.” Yifan flushes as Zitao gives him a surprised glance, one that fades into a smirk. “Shut up.” Yifan grumbles, twisting away. “I researched.” He gets a laugh in response before Zitao is moving off the bed and Yifan sets about removing the last pieces of his clothing.  
Zitao has done this before, that much is easy to tell from the way he expertly slicks up the fingers of his left hand, the other finding purchase on Yifan’s thigh to hold him open. And Yifan is just glad that at least one of them knows what he’s doing. He still tenses when the first presses inside, the sensation foreign but not entirely unwelcome. Zitao is ever so careful as he fingers him, dropping soft kisses to his chest as Yifan whimpers, trying to distract from the discomfort. It’s slow, almost achingly slow and the lanterns have grown dim by the time Zitao pulls away, wiping his hand off on his pants. Those are soon stripped off too and join the growing pile on the floor. Yifan shuts his eyes as Zitao climbs on the bed, arms coming up to wrap around him, grounding him.

The initial pain feels like a reprimand,a warning of the mistake he’s making but then there’s Zitao, his hands, his lips, seeking and pressing whispers of love onto his skin as he moves. Every thrust is punctuated with a gasp of Yifan’s name, tone reverent. And the pain abates, until Yifan is gasping into Zitao’s neck, urging him to move faster, harder, _please_. The sensation is completely foreign, the solidity of a man’s body pressing down him, the fullness from being stretched around a cock but it’s no longer unwelcome. And when Zitao shifts, finds the perfect angle it has him crying out loud enough that Zitao places a hand over his mouth, laughing softly. “Don’t want your guards to think you’re being attacked, my prince.”

It’s an assault on his senses after that, as Zitao’s pace picks up, his hand finding it’s way to Yifan’s cock and stroking him in time with his thrusts until Yifan is crying out his release, hips stuttering as he rides out the wave. Zitao comes undone after that, pace getting erratic as he chases his own pleasure and Yifan watches, transfixed. When he comes it’s with a soft moan of Yifan’s name before he slumps forward. And while he’d love to indulge in this for a while longer, Zitao is heavy. He nudges the younger man until he groans, batting his hands away as he rolls off of Yifan. His hand finds it's way to his hip, tugging him closer until they're facing each other. Zitao's still breathing heavily, the muscles of his chest heaving and Yifan can't resist the temptation to trace his fingers over them. "They must have you boys doing some heavy work down there." Zitao lets out a questioning hum. "I've never met a scribe with a physique like this.Are you sure you're not a soldier instead?"

There's a brief moment where he feels Zitao tense before the younger laughs against his neck."And exactly how many scribes or soldiers have you taken to bed that you can compare me to them?" he teases, turning his head to look up at him. At this angle, the sharpness of his features looks softer, more radiant than any one person should be. Yifan is entranced. "I don't think it's possible for you to be compared to anyone else." he admits,smoothing a hand through Zitao's hair. "You're perfect."

"You shouldn't say such things." The scribe murmurs before sitting up to blow out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. "Sleep now, my prince."

Yifan goes to sleep that night with a smile on his face.

  
***  


Deception has never come easily to Zitao.  
It isn't the same as lying. That he can do easily, has been doing for these past four months in the palace but what he's doing with Yifan feels insidious. The Prince is smitten with him, anyone can tell that and Zitao can't stop the sickening lurch of guilt in his stomach every time he returns Yifan's smiles, his kisses. He's his lover but also the enemy scheming to bring down his kingdom. The only word Zitao can use for himself is despicable.

But the guilt isn't enough to stop him from being selfish and accepting Yifan’s attention. The time they spend together has increased to the point that Yifan’s guard now lets him through without any question and Tao hasn’t stepped foot in his bedchamber in weeks. All his clothes have somehow shifted to Yifan’s chamber and on more than one occasion he’s discovered midway through the day that he’s wearing the other man’s clothes.If it weren’t for the air of secrecy around their meetings, he could almost delude himself into believing that this is what pleasant domesticity is like.

Qian continues to demand nightly meetings from him and each time he’ll march into the harem with a growing feeling of dread. Some nights she won’t say anything, make him kneel in front of her for hours as she busies herself with other things. Other times she’ll interrogate him, pry for details about his life, the time they’d spent in the red light district. There’s a knowingly cruel twist to her mouth when she asks, deliberately phrasing her questions to make them as humiliating as possible.His arms have small half-moon shaped bruises from where he digs his nails into skin, fighting to maintain control as she goads him. He tries to think of his mother but it’s the images of Yifan that come into mind and help calm him down somewhat.

Today is different. She’s in just her undergown when he enters and he immediately averts his eyes, staring resolutely at the wall hangings. She scoffs and he feels her nails on his arm, tugging him towards her. “I didn’t call you here to stand around like a simpleton. Help me dress.”

He’s stiff as he helps her into her garments, wrapping the silk tight around her.It doesn’t escape his notice that her robes are far flimsier than the ones the women of the harem will normaly wear. The ties face the front and she's missing the underlay. It suddenly clicks for him and he drops his hands away from her waist. “You’re servicing tonight?”

Qian laughs, petting his cheek and he flinches back. “Did you not realise? My sweet boy, I know you’re not that innocent.” She turns to face her mirror, comb clamped between her teeth as she pulls her hair back. “The emperor has requested that I visit him tonight. He must have found some hidden reserve of energy, he hasn’t asked for me in months.” She holds up her headdress and Zitao helps arrange it, surprised that he still remembers how to. “It’s quite revolting really. Lying with a man of his age. He can barely even see straight let alone pleasure properly. One of the sacrifices one must make as the head concubine is losing the company of much more skilled men” She catches his hand then, bringing him forward until he’s facing her. “Of course, if the rumors are to be believed, you my dear Zitao, have no trouble finding a skilled man to keep you company.”

His heart pounds as he stares back at her, frantically trying to determine how she could have found out, who or what might have given them away. She pets his cheek again, her fingers now finding his hair and tugging. “It’s not good to keep secrets, TaoTao. Especially from me.” She tugs again, hard enough that he tears up but he stays still until she finally lets go, smoothing the strands back into place. “There’s no need to be so worried. Your little lover is insignificant in the grand scheme of things.” She’s fully dressed now, only pausing to slide jewelled rings onto her slim fingers. “Things will be proceeding very quickly within the next fortnight, Zitao. Lord Bai will be sending over the details soon but in the meantime, you must stay prepared to strike at any moment. When the plan unfolds, you must remember that your first priority is to kill the First Prince. Sexian, Yifan and the princes aren’t as important but Junmian must die.” The hatred in her voice is apparent as she spits out the First Prince’s name.He watches as she makes her way over to the trunk in the corner of the room, kneeling to unlock it. 

“Zitao, come here.” Her tone is softer now and he takes hesitant steps towards the trunk. She tugs various bolts of fabric out of the interior until the floor is a sea of multicoloured silk. At the very bottom lies a long object, wrapped in thick leather hide. She gestures for him to lift it up and he does so, the fabric slipping away as stands. His gasp is loud in the quiet of the room when he recognizes what it is. 

The weight of his sword is like an old companion, the metal of the grip a comforting presence as he lifts it up.He tests the swing, gratified to see that his movements, while slower, are still precise. A wave of homesickness washes over him as he runs his fingers over the blade, memories of a time when he’d still had his innocence, back when the only thing he’d used a blade on was the hay dummies in the sparring field. The sword is the same but it’s bearer has changed so much in just four moons time.

The dull gold of Qian’s headdress is reflected on the blade and he turns to look down at her, still kneeling amongst the fabric. A surge of his desire overcomes him as he imagines stepping forward and sinking the blade right through her neck. It would be so easy to mar that pale skin, have her blood paint patterns on the silk in the same kind of twisted beauty she possesses. He moves of his own accord, until the point of the blade is pressed against her sternum. She doesn’t move, eyes opening to meet his in mocking amusement. “Do it, Zitao.”

He wants, has never wanted anything more but the vision of his mother has him stumbling back, sword now lax in his grip. Qian laughs, standing up and reaching for her lantern. “The eunuch will be here to take me to the King’s chambers soon. I’d be gone before then if I were you otherwise a beheading might take place tonight after all.”

He makes his way through the secret passages, choosing to conceal his sword within one of the corridors. It pains him to leave it behind but it’s far too conspicuous for him to hide on his person or in his chambers.He's dusting his clothes off as he exits the trap door and misses the figure walking down the corridor until a light is being shone on him.He freezes mid step, the light illuminating the face of the person holding the lantern.

Lord Yixing is glaring at him and Zitao belatedly realizes he should bow. The other man doesn't seem appeased even after Zitao does, his tone harsh in the otherwise silent room. "What are you doing here?"

"Prince Yifan wished to see me." It's a safe lie and he bows his head again. trying to brush past the other man. For the second time that night he feels fingers digging into his arm as he's stopped from moving forward. Lord Yixing is glaring up at him, his voice menacing as he speaks. "You may have this entire palace fooled, Huang but you do not trick me. I'm watching you and the minute you so much as step a toe out of line, I'll have you deposed. Or worse."

Zitao has had enough of being yanked around for one night and he wrenches his arm out of the other man's grip, making him stumble.."You're very welcome to watch me all you want, Lord Zhang. In fact if you accompany me right now, I'm sure you'll see something you'll enjoy greatly." He's pushed a nerve and he decides to press further. "You can live vicariously through me and pretend it's you the Prince wants to fuck."

There's a loud clang as the lantern is dropped and Zitao jumps back, narrowly avoiding hot wax splashing on his feet. The corridor is dark but he can still make out the figure of Lord Yixing as he strides away down the corridor and he muffles a laugh before setting off in the opposite direction.

Yifan is already asleep when he arrives and he undresses silently before sliding under the sheets. His heart aches when Yifan's arm reaches out instinctively, groping until it finds residence on Zitao's hip. The Second Prince’s voice is sleep heavy as he asks him where he’s been. Zitao hushes him, leaning over to blow out the lantern.”Sleep, it’s not important, Yifan.”

It feels like only a moment has passed when they’re woken by the bang of the wooden bedchamber door.Yifan sits up but Zitao is faster, already holding the First Prince’s sword in his grip. “Who's’ there?” he barks, holding it in front of him in a protective stance. The swinging lantern illuminates the faces of Commander Chen and Lord Yixing and Zitao’s heart is thudding in his chest as he stares back and forth between them. Yixing must have discovered him, there’s no other reason for them to intrude this late.He grips the sword tighter, fully prepared to fight his way out if need be.

Yifan’s voice penetrates the haze in his mind, his sleep-roughened baritone echoing in the chamber. ‘What is the meaning of this?” he thunders, standing up. He seems uncaring of his state of undress, moving to block Zitao from view as he addresses his two subordinates. “No one is to enter my bedchamber after nightfall, this is known.”

“My Prince.”Yixing's voice is quiet, a chilling contrast to Yifan’s volume and Zitao shivers. The advisor sinks to his knees and Commander Chen follows.Yifan looks hesitant now as he stares down at them, waiting for them to continue. “Earlier the Physician was summoned to your father’s bedchamber. He was in the throes of a seizure. They did their best, My Prince-”

“No.” Yifan’s tone is desperate, pleading but Lord Yixing merely bows his head, voice quieter but every word is heard loud and clear.

“Emperor Lu Zhang of Wu, is dead.”

***


End file.
